


FIRE

by ScarletteStar1



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Reality, Erotica, F/F, I sort of have a plan. . ., Love, Multi, Not Canon Compliant, Smut, let's just see where this goes, rinch, shoot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2016-10-08
Packaged: 2018-07-26 07:47:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 23,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7565968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarletteStar1/pseuds/ScarletteStar1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Root is unhappily married to Harold and falls in love at first sight with an exotic sociopath named Sameen Shaw, and where Harold is smitten with his hit man for hire, John Reese.  Shoot and Rinch and all kinds of weird stuff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. PROLOGUE

**Author's Note:**

> This story is lovingly dedicated to thebeatifulbadass (2SAM2FURIOUS) for bringing me around to the glorious fandom that is Shoot and Person of Interest, and for patiently listening all night, every night to my incessant gushing about Root. xoxo.

_“I don’t like to wait too long, to wait too long, wait too long_  
_Figured out I’m burning slow, but I burn babe_  
_I feel the pain and it feels good, I know it would_  
_Your heart burns slow, I feel the pain and I cry out,_  
_I cry out. . .” -- House on Fire, by Sia_

It was not my plan to fall in love with her.

In fact, I specifically told myself I was not allowed to fall for her the second I saw her. Which is a little weird and automatically damning, if you think about it.

But there she was, at my house, at one of those silly dinner parties Harold threw so he could be charming and elegant and show off his IQ. Bless his erudite heart.

She appeared as Martine’s latest arm candy, but she looked more like forbidden fruit. I instantly knew Martine would never bring her to heel, and it would be over by the end of the night.

I was right, of course. Martine called me in tears the next morning, and I couldn’t have been happier. Yes, I have been called wicked before and to tell you the truth, I never really minded. I took a wicked delight in Martine’s salty choking on her tears.

But back to her.

She spent most of the night petting Bear, sneaking him mushroom puffs and scallops wrapped in prosciutto when she thought no one was looking. I watched her from the parlor, enchanted by how she did not seem to give one flying fig about the dog hair that was being shed all over her little, black, cocktail dress. Part of me wanted to tell her to cut it the fuck out because I knew Bear would be up all night with an angry intestinal system, and I would be the one pacing the yard with him. Another part of me was content to sip champagne and fiddle with my pearls as I watched her.

That little black dress. I wanted to pinch the zipper in my fingers, to hear it go down, to hear the chatter of each little tooth as it opened to reveal her silky back.

And then I would wrap my arms around her, pull her to me and bite her hard, leave my mark, make her mine. My feral instincts were surprisingly not surprising to me, which also was a bit weird, if you stop and think about it, which at that moment I did not chose to do. I did not stop and think about it. I merely felt the heavy ache for her lower itself over my entire body.

God hissed in my ear. For the first time ever I told God to fuck off and cursed the day my husband had implanted the omnipotent being in my head. God was not pleased and buzzed angrily.

I caught myself. I pulled myself back. I shook off the dark, velvety cloak of that gorgeous woman. In my mind, I zippered her back up and went to find Harold. I hung on his arm as he spoke to someone about national security and the surveillance project on which he was working. He was so proud of it. He talked about it every chance he got, sometimes with a little bit more volume than I would have thought appropriate. Silly man. He never gave me any credit, although to be honest, he wouldn’t have been there in that pretty and spacious brownstone had it not been for me. Had it not been for my gift of speaking with God. Harold was pleased to take all the credit. It made me feel annoyed, and then it made me sad for him. He’d thrown the party to impress John, and John had not shown. So, I twisted my arm into Harold’s, and we tried our best to play the happy couple.

Harold didn’t know then that I knew about John. God had told me months ago, and I knew everything, every sticky, dripping detail. Not that I really cared, other than to feel sorry for Harold.

It wasn’t much of a marriage, but it wasn’t that bad either. We had enough money to be comfortable. We were fond of one another. That much was true. At that point, the night of that party when I first saw her, we had been married for about three years. We’d had sex exactly two and a half times in the beginning when we thought we wanted to have a baby, but then in the middle of the third time, we both looked at each other and thought better of it. We had dreamed of having a family, even if we would never be a normal couple. Actually, since we are being honest, Harold was willing to give me a baby. He didn’t really want one himself. He was doing me a favor. An awkward, irrational, and very generous favor. At that third time, as he was about to sink his barely erect penis into me, I looked at him, patted his shoulder and just said, “Harry.”

“Right,” he answered, and that was that. He kissed me on the forehead, and moved into the spare room that night, like the perfect gentleman he was, and I spread out my limbs, blissfully, in my own bed.

I’ll get into all of the reasons Harold and I married one another later on, but that’s not really what this story is about.

It’s about her.

It’s about me vowing that I would not fall for her the moment I laid eyes on her, when it was already too late.

Look. Here’s the thing. If you have to tell yourself that you are absolutely, positively NOT going to fall in love with someone the moment you meet them, then it is already too late.

You would not expect me to believe in love at first sight, and I don’t. Never have. But with her. . .

. . . with her it was different. It always has been.

After 23 minutes of playing wifey, she reappeared in my line of sight.

She looked like the place where I could tell all my secrets, all the things that only Harold knew, the things that kept me up at night. The thought of baring my soul to her gave me a sense of comfort and adoration the likes of which I’d never known and only dreamed.

I started that night.

I planted just a little seed of a secret to see how it felt. I waited while she was in the powder room, and when she came out, there I was. I offered her a glass of champagne which she gulped down and then issued a quiet and tiny little belch that made me want to squeal with delight.

“Harold stole a Degas from the New York Stock Exchange,” I offered.

I was momentarily chagrinned when she didn’t bat an eye or seem interested, but then she answered, “Cool.” We stood there for a moment and I sipped my champagne and smiled helplessly at her. Then she rather snapped, “Well, are you going to show it to me or what?”

So I led her into Harold’s office and showed her the sketch. I watched as her exotic, dark eyes took in the picture. I looked for some shift in her features, but her face was impassive, statuesque. It was impressive, really.

And also a bit of a challenge.

“I didn’t catch your name,” I said, extending my hand.

“Shaw. Sameen Shaw.” She gripped my hand with such force I thought my bones would crush. I was shocked by the strength in her tiny fingers. For a moment, I was excited by the prospect of her breaking every bone in my hand, of my having to have surgery to set pins and rods to make my fingers work again. It was the thought of having scars related to her that got me all squishy in my black, lace thong.

“Sameen,” I said, sampling her name in my mouth and washing it down with champagne. “It’s a lovely name. Can I call you ‘Sammy’?” I simpered.

“Uh. Sure. If you want me to never respond to whatever it is you are saying.”

I laughed nervously as I twirled my pearls. “I’m Samantha Groves-Finch.”

“Yeah,” she said. “I know who you are.”

“Our names are so similar. We could be ‘the Sams’,” I said making air quotes around the name. “I never wanted to be called Sammy either.”

“Um, ok,” she grumbled with a sardonic smile and a tip of her lovely head. Her hair fell in front of her eye and she brushed it away absently. I couldn’t tell if she was amused or annoyed.

I floundered for conversation. She no longer seemed interested in the little dancer in front of us. “Have you tried that Yoga-laties class at the studio over on Governor Street? I’ve heard it really kicks your butt.”

“Martine has been trying to get me to go to it, but that’s not really my scene.”

“Really? Because you look like you work out. Your arms are so defined.”

“Well, I mean, yeah, I work out,” she said. “I’m just not really into that fru-fru-shi-shi stuff.”

“More of a Crossfit gal, huh? Fair enough. How long have you known Martine?”

“About two weeks.”

“Oh, so it’s very new. Well that’s nice. Martine is . . . nice.” I uttered this lie to see what she would do with it. Martine was anything but nice. In truth, I despised Martine and her always perfectly coiffed hair. I’ll get into all my reasons for despising her at a later date. This is a story about meeting Sameen, about love at first sight, about bone crushing complications that would send me into a spiral of despair over the next few years, not about that vapid twat Martine. To my delight, my new little friend wriggled her beautiful lip into a grimace, raised her eyebrow and shook her head when I said Martine was “nice”. I giggled, in spite of myself.

Secrets. Lies. Our relationship was off to a rollicking start. I was thrilled.

Maybe it was the champagne.

Harold came into his office then and found us. “There you are, Darling,” he said to me. “The caterers are wondering if they should put out the shrimp toasts now.”

“Sure, whatever,” I smiled.

“Ah, I see you and Miss Shaw have become acquainted with one another.”

“We have,” I cooed. “I was just showing her the Degas.”

“Are you a fan of the Impressionists, Miss Shaw?”

“No. Honestly, I could give a tiny rat’s pooper about most art. But I heard there was a cool story behind this piece. I like stories. And deviance,” she said. Her voice was sweet and flat and salty and sour all at once. She smiled at Harold and did this thing with her lips and eyes that melted me. I giggled.

Later, Harold told me that Martine had told him Sameen Shaw was diagnosed with Antisocial Personality Disorder.

“Really Samantha,” he said. “She’s reportedly had some dangerous behavior. She spent time in an institution.”

“Well, who hasn’t?” I quipped, happily.

He told me I should watch my step when I told him that Sameen and I had planned to take a motorcycle class together. Sameen and I. The sound of it made my entire body flutter like a butterfly. He raised an eyebrow in pure perturbation and told me again to be careful. I giggled again.

Maybe it was the champagne.

Or maybe I knew that despite all of the inherent complications, we were going to be perfect together.


	2. Finch

I’d seen that look in her eyes before. 

It was a look that consumed her entire body, caused her to quiver with the excitement of whatever secrets she was holding. There had been a time when I knew all of her secrets, but the look on her face that night made me doubt my omniscience. 

It was a look of danger. 

It was a look that put me in mind of the Saints from Medieval times who would have visions and visitations, their bodies possessed and trembling with rapture of spirit. 

It was the look that tipped the scales, not so many moons ago, and made me commit her involuntarily to an institution. 

Many saints were also patrons of mental asylums. This is a fact, although it is also a fact we no longer call them asylums. 

I checked her out, of course, after a month. The treatments had done astoundingly little for her, and she got back into my car with her little carry on bag, even more imbued with power than she had been when she was checked in there. As we drove off, she unzipped the bag, unrolled the window and started tossing things out. A toothbrush. A comb. “Well, Harry. I hope you’ve learned your lesson this time.” Little bottles of shampoo. 

“And what lesson would that be, Samantha?” I asked, then added, “Would you mind? I don’t particularly fancy getting pulled over for littering.” 

She didn’t answer me, just continued flipping things out the window of the car until the bag was empty. A pair of reading glasses. A romance novel. “Oh, Harry,” was all she said. She smiled at me. “I want you to know I don’t hold a grudge. And I accept your sincere apology.” 

“Well, that’s nice, but I didn’t apologize. And I’m not exactly sure I should be bringing you home.” I said, looking sideways at her but trying to keep my eyes on the road. Her bag was completely empty. She shook it upside down to be absolutely certain of its emptiness, and then she threw it out the window. A decisive finger, the nail of which gleamed with black lacquer, pressed the button to roll up the window. 

“You silly boy,” she laughed. She actually laughed. “If you don’t want to bring me home, take me to a hotel. I could use a few days of room service. But bring me home first so I can get my stuff.” 

“Samantha,” I’d sighed. “Of course I will bring you home. I’m just worried.” 

“I’m perfectly safe. A full team of doctors and therapists gave me a clean bill of mental health.” 

“I think they said something more along the lines of there was nothing else they could do for you since you were so bull headed in all of the different treatments.” 

“That’s not exactly true. I’m not talking about killing anyone anymore. Homicidal ideation be gone!” She cheered and put her hands out before her, fingers splayed, like an evangelical minister. 

“Doesn’t mean you aren’t thinking about it,” I mumbled. 

“You know me so well,” she said. I could tell she had that look in her eye. It was calm and manic all at once. It was dangerous. It was bewilderingly beautiful. 

And that was the same look she had when she met Miss Shaw at our party. 

It was a look remarkably similar to the one that convinced me to marry her. Of course I knew without a doubt what a dangerous woman she was. Part of me thought I could keep closer tabs on her should we become man and wife. It was a way of placating her, though not in any way creating any submission in her. I harbored no disillusionment about her temperament. I thought of it as keeping my friend close and my enemy closer. She was both, afterall. 

It’s safe to say we never loved each other, at least not in any romantic way. Although I could easily appreciate that her beauty was breathtaking in many ways, I never found Samantha attractive. Or, perhaps I should say I was never attracted to Samantha. We’d grown fond of one another, and I’d nearly made peace with the knowledge that she would attempt to kill me once I outlived my usefulness. 

Knowledge of her eventual murder of me led me to hire John. Well, that, and I needed someone to help with the numbers. They had started coming fast and furious once Samantha became the conduit. 

I’d like to think our work changed her, even a little. I’d like to think she cared, even a small bit about the people we saved. I’d like to think that she enjoyed the work for more reason than simply that she was good at it. Actually, ‘good’ is an understatement. She was brilliant. And I’d like to think better of myself than to say I was jealous of her, that I begrudged her that genius. But that would be a lie. 

I was beyond jealous. 

I was almost to the brink of hating her, just a little, because the Machine chose her. I had created the damn thing, given it life and breath and purpose. 

But it chose her. 

And hate, after all, isn’t really in my nature. 

Anyway, I was content to imagine that she was changing, becoming more invested in the sanctity of human life, if not altruistic. 

Back to the night of the party, the look. I could tell she was instantly smitten. She sensed damage and danger in others the way lions could sense prey lurking in even the darkest jungle. My lioness. My wife. And she was drawn to those qualities in others in ways that were mysterious, erotic. It was as though she fed on them, as though it fueled her fiery and insatiable hunger. 

In the vein of keeping friends and enemies alike nearby, I decided to extend a job offer to Miss Shaw. 

I read somewhere that scholars have deduced the saints who were most afflicted by their raptures and visitations were, more likely than not, having migraines. The visions and change in perception was likely a neurological alteration, the aura preceding a migraine headache. Can you imagine if modern medicine had been available to those poor women? Can you imagine all of the trouble and confusion it would have saved them. Modern day institutions are not palaces by any means, but can you imagine being a woman labeled “Insane” back in medieval times? 

It’s food for thought. 

If only things with Samantha had been so simple.


	3. The Machine

“I need a little help here.” 

Jamba Juice, 625 8th Ave. Pineapple passion with extra protein powder. 

“Soy or whey?” 

3G Energy Green Caffeine Boost.

“Time?” 

8:45 a.m. After her workout at the Stadium. 

“Perfect. And what about breakfast? What does she usually like for breakfast?” 

Pancakes. Eggs. Bacon. Sausage. Canadian bacon. Waffles. Steak. Diner around the corner from her apartment. Ziggy’s. She goes home to shower after getting her juice. Breakfast at 10 a.m. 

“Oh, so my little kitten is a fan of the breakfast meats? Well, I suppose she does need ample protein for all that lean muscle. I mean, did you see her arms?” 

Height five feet, three inches. Weight 105 pounds. 

“Mmmmm. Fierce. Just the way I like.” 

Threat assessment: Knife strapped to right ankle. Gun in pants. Vetted by admin. Hired by admin. 

“It is so sweet that Harold still tries to surprise us with these little gifts, isn’t it? I have a feeling my new friend and I are going to cause quite the little stir. How is she in a fight?” 

Danger assessment: 97 percent lethal towards potential target. 

“Only 97 percent? Well, that’s potential, anyway. I guess we are going to have to do some work, aren’t we?” 

Work. Assessment. No current numbers. 45 percent chance of number this afternoon. 

“Thank you. That will do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for those who have commented or left kudos. They are so helpful and motivational, I can't even tell you.


	4. Shaw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our lovely ladies meet again. . . and drink juice and contemplate the merits of "girl time".

Run up a section. Run down a section. Sit ups. Push ups. 

Repeat. 

Repeat. 

At the time, I didn’t know how she found me. I was doing my weekly workout at the Stadium, and there she was, sitting back in one of the chairs, her feet up on the seat in front of her. Black boots crossed primly over one another at the ankle like the sweetest, most proper thug you’ve ever seen. 

I’ll admit, it was hot in a kind of creepy way. 

But her husband had just hired me for some weird assignment. I don’t fraternize with coworkers. And I don’t do married chicks. 

Still, those clunky, black boots caught my attention. My eyes traveled up her legs. Her legs were long and super skinny like some kind of extra-stretchy superhero. 

“I brought you a smoothie,” she said. “A tour de stad is an impressive workout, so I figured you would be thirsty. Pineapple passion.” She held the extra large, frosty cup in my direction. I did not immediately take it. “That’s cute how you do that thing with your one eyebrow,” she said in that baby doll voice. I willed my skeptical-bitch-face to become a resting-and-impassive-bitch-face. She smiled at me like we were in some kind of Disney movie. I was tempted to look around for the fucking baby rabbits, fawns, and butterflies. She fucking batted her eyelashes at me. “Come on,” she said, jiggling the cup before me. “Extra protein. The green stuff with caffeine.” 

“What are you, stalking me?” I asked. I grabbed the cup and pulled the little piece of straw off of the tip, then took a long sip. Damn. There is something to be said for a woman who can get your drink order perfect on the first try. It didn’t taste poisoned either. 

“Stalking? Don’t be silly, Sameen. I just thought it would be nice to bring you a drink. And maybe we could hang out?” She put her legs down and stood up in a graceful swoop that seemed feline and almost absurd. The woman had more legs than a bucket of chicken. She had almost a full foot on me, or maybe she only seemed larger than life standing there on the Stadium steps with the sun behind her making her just about glow. Cue the singing mice and bluebirds. 

“Hang out?”

“Sure.” 

“Can you just cut to the chase and let me know what the catch is here?” 

“Catch?” She smiled. “There’s no catch. Do a couple of ladies need a catch to share some quality girl time?” 

“I thought we already established that I do not do ‘girl time’.” I snapped, referencing the night of that infernal cocktail party when I shot down her coy invitation to ballet class or whatever the yoga fuck it was. I could feel my pulse slowing and wanted to get back to my workout. 

“I suppose it just depends on your definition of girl time, then,” she sighed. She reached behind her and pulled a gun out from the back of her pants. She held it casually in her right hand in a manner that was about as threatening as a Barbie doll holding a hairbrush. I’m not great with social signals, but it was almost like she was saying ‘Show me yours and I’ll show you mine’. The sun glinted off the silver metal of the gun and off the shiny black polish on her nails. “We could go shoot some stuff up and then get our nails done. How does that sound?” 

“Listen, Mrs. Groves-Finch--” I began. 

“Please,” she interrupted. “Call me Root.” 

“Root? Ok, whatever. Root. I work for your husband now, and I don’t know what this is all about, and as much as I like- actually love- shooting stuff, I don’t really commingle with the boss’s wife.” 

“Wow. Well, maybe Harold and whoever else was wrong about you, Sameen.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” 

“I was led to believe that you had certain tendencies that I considered charming. But it seems you have a moral code after all.” 

“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you. Now if you can get out of my way, I’m going to continue my workout. Thanks for the juice.” I shoved the half empty cup back in her direction. She took it back and wrapped her plump, pink lips around the straw, then sucked up a mouthful of the drink with a lascivious sigh. She didn’t break eye contact with me, so I took it upon myself to turn and start running back down the steps. I got about six steps down when I heard her call out. 

“I read your file, Sweetie.” 

I turned and pounded back up the steps. She had set the drink down on the arm of a seat, and was tucking her gun back in her pants. For a second, a sliver of her moon-white abdomen flashed in the sun. It caught my eye and then it disappeared. “What the fuck do you want?” 

“I told you. I just thought we could have some fun together.” 

“I don’t do fun. And I don’t do games. And normally, I don’t tell the boss’s wife to go fuck herself, but, go fuck yourself.” 

“Oh dear.” She reached up and stroked the side of my face, tucked my stray bangs behind my ear. “You don’t do girly stuff. You don’t do fun. You don’t play games. What on earth does that leave us with for ‘us’ time, Sameen?” She made air quotes around ‘us’ with those long, skinny fingers, and then she took a step closer to me. She bit her lip. That puffy lower lip. I laughed in spite of myself.

“Are you flirting with me?” 

“Would you like me to flirt with you? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?” She smiled and reached out to touch me. Her fingers dragged along the moist skin at the base of my sports bra. 

“Have you ever been told that subtlety is not your strong suit.” 

“Have you ever been told--” she started, but then she abruptly stopped talking. She cocked her head slightly as if she were listening to something. I looked around. I couldn’t see anything, and I certainly didn’t hear anything. “Ok,” she said softly, but she definitely was not speaking to me. I’d seen people in the institution do this kind of thing. I’d seen it during my psych rotation after residency. I’d also seen this kind of thing during the, uh, ‘quiet time’ that I spent inside. Schitzos who were responding to internal stimuli. I wondered if this chick were really out of her gourd. “Got it,” she said in that same, small, soft voice that was in no way directed at me. “Shit, Sweetie,” she said brightly. I looked around and realized this time she was in fact talking to me. “I’ve got to dash. Catch you later!” 

She trotted down the Stadium steps and disappeared from sight. I resumed my workout, trying not to wonder when Princess Psycho would reappear. 

Run up. Run down. Push ups. Sit ups. 

Repeat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments and kudos are so appreciated. I try to respond to all comments, and love hearing what you are thinking and how you are enjoying the story. Because I have a totally nutty RL, my chapters tend to be pretty short and sweet, but it allows me to post a bit more frequently. . . I hope you all keep reading. Yay! You're all so great!!! xoxoxo.


	5. Reese

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains some sexual content.

He was scared of her. 

It didn’t take any of the skills I’d needed in the CIA National Clandestine Services to figure out within 45 seconds that Finch was scared of his wife. Anyone with the ability to use basic deductive reasoning would have seen it as quickly as I did. 

Not that he didn’t have reason to fear her. She was a combination of brilliance, insanity, and beauty that was nearly absurd in the power it projected. She was dangerous with a capital ‘D’. She could hack computers better than anyone I’d ever come across in my travels, and that included Harold. Add to that talent that she could interrogate and torture a suspect as good or better than anyone I’d worked with in the military, or in the CIA. That should tell you a thing or two about her. 

And she’d convinced him to make her the Machine’s analogue interface, for reasons I still hadn’t realized. Maybe that choice wasn’t really a choice afterall. Maybe Finch had acted out of fear when he had the implant put into her ear. Or maybe she truly did wield that much power. 

He’d hired me to work on saving people. It was supposed to help me with my own redemption, give me a purpose. That was the job pitch, anyway. But I knew I was really there to protect him from her. His big grey eyes, made even bigger by his glasses, would follow her anxiously, would track her every movement. I did some digging and found out she had abducted him, drugged him, and pushed him to the brink of insanity himself. Maybe insanity was the reason he married her. 

They had a bizarre relationship. 

Bizarre relationships seemed to be Harold’s specialty, second only to computer code. This is what I was thinking, on my knees with my face in his lap, behind his desk at the library. 

“Everything is so complicated,” he said softly, as if reading my mind. His hands shuffled through my hair, rested lightly on my head, but continued to let me set the pace and pressure on him. “Look up at me, John,” he said and I complied. I easily had 80 pounds on my diminutive boss, and no physical injuries limiting my strength, but something about his voice always made me want to comply. He looked down on me, and then his eyes rolled back in his head as he came in my mouth. I swallowed the mild, salty spurts, and kept him in my mouth until I felt him softening. I knew that was how he liked it. I’d done this often enough over the past few months. Not that I minded. I took a tissue from my pocket and wiped him clean and dry. Then I sat back on my heels, put him back into his pants, and zippered him up. 

“Complicated is one word for it,” I said and gently patted his thighs as I stood. I was smiling, but he looked up at me from his seat, and frowned. 

“To be clear, again, Mr. Reese, this is not a- uh- service for which I am paying you.” 

“Sure it’s not, Harold.” I moved behind him and massaged his shoulders. 

“I’m serious, Mr. Reese.” 

“With what you are paying me, I would be glad to perform just about any service. And aren’t we on first name terms now?” 

“Fine. John. And with what you are donating to various charities, I should probably increase your salary.” 

“You don’t miss a thing, do you?” I gave his shoulders a final squeeze and dropped a kiss on the crown of his head. 

“It just seems a peculiar relationship we have undertaken, and occasionally, I, as your employer feel a bit, shall we say, awkward. I just want to make sure that we delineate exactly for what I am paying, and for what I am not paying.” 

“You worry too much,” I whispered into his ear. “The salary is just fine, delineated or not, but I do need to go now.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I’m meeting Detective Carter across town. She was able to scoop a little something out of the evidence locker that should be useful for this latest number.” 

“I see,” Harold said. “John?” 

“Mmm?” I was distracted, checking the clip of my weapon, and tucking it into the back of my pants. I smoothed the lapels of my jacket and checked that my shirt was buttoned. 

“Does, Detective Carter. . . does she,” Harold paused and words seemed to fill his mouth like marbles. “Does she know about us?” He finally spit out, catching my full attention. 

“No, Harold. She doesn’t know about us. No one does.” 

“Ah. I see.” 

“You sound almost disappointed,” I said. “But we agreed that this thing between us is better left in the dark.” 

“Of course. You’re absolutely right, John.” He swiveled back to his desk and computer screens. I watched his shoulders rise and fall in a sigh that seemed dejected. I was torn between wanting to comfort him and wanting to bolt. Emotional intimacy was difficult and confusing and it rarely follows the rules you lay out for it. As he had just said, life is very complicated. 

It started between us soon after I began my work with him. He’d foolishly followed me out after a number and almost got himself killed when things went sideways. I was furious with him. Fear makes me angry. I’d dragged him, wounded, disoriented, and mumbling about his distaste for guns, back to the library. He’d been shot in the arm, and was bleeding profusely. But he was lucky. The bullet had only grazed him, and although the blood was copious, it had not nicked an artery. I cleaned and bandaged his arm, swearing at him under my breath as he looked up at me with those fucking huge eyes. “I’m sorry, John,” he whispered with quivering lips. “I’m so sorry.” I scowled at him, unable to say anything. He reached up to encircle my neck with his hands. It was an amazingly bold gesture, but bolder still was when he pulled my face down to his and kissed me. His lips were so soft, almost feminine, and they parted easily to allow my tongue entrance into his mouth. 

We’d held each other then, hands clasped on one another’s necks, foreheads pressed together, for what seemed an eternity, and yet was over far too quickly. 

I found myself distracted by that kiss for days after it happened. We never really discussed it, although I could tell there were times when he wanted to. Feelings that had been planted by fear quickly grew to manifest in physical ways that seemed natural and stayed silent. One evening I followed him into the bathroom, pushed him up against the wall, and wrapped my arms around him. 

“Are we doing this?” I asked, reaching down into his pants and finding him swelling. 

“I’m yours for the taking, John,” he had whispered. So I took him. 

Rules were unspoken but understood. At least I had thought they were understood. But when I saw him sigh and hunch over his work in a manner bordering on dejected, and I had to stop and wonder what we were doing and where were we headed. 

“Do you want Carter to know about us?” I asked him. He didn’t look up from the computer screen. 

“Of course not, John,” he said, pecking away at his keyboard. “As complicated as this is, it would be far more so if not kept on the downlow. Besides, it’s rather nice to have a little secret between just you and I, isn’t it?” 

“Yes. It is.” I was far better at compartmentalizing than he was, and yet something about the way he didn’t even look at me stung. Feeling hurt makes me angry. “I’ll be back in a couple hours. Call if you need me.” I put in my earpiece and walked over to the gate. I slid it open, let myself out and closed it behind me with one final look at him. It was hard to know if he was looking glum or just very intent on the work before him, his face aglow in the light of the computer screens. 

On my way out to the street, I passed Root on the stairs. Or rather, she passed me, then turned to look down at me from a step or two up. That was how she liked to have her opponent, on lower ground. “Well if it isn’t tall, dark, and morose,” she said. Her voice was almost perpetually flirty. 

“Root.” I acknowledged her presence with the single syllable of her name. Harold hated it when we called her Root. He always called her Samantha, or used some husbandly pet name. Dear. Darling. That sort of thing. When I wasn’t in front of Harold, it seemed silly to protest her will to be called by her four letter hacker name. 

“Well, I see you are learning to get my name right. Guess I won’t have to get out Mister Buzzy anymore since you’re all trained now. Good boy. Where are you off to?” She stroked my chest in a gesture of mock fondness. She didn’t like me anymore than I liked her. I figured she probably knew, or at least guessed at that which transpired between Harold and me. Either way, she didn’t let on. Maybe it was just that facet of her demeanor that always made me think she was watching. And the other facet that let me know if she wasn’t watching, for some strange reason, the Machine was. 

“I’m off for a quick meeting with Carter.” 

“Delightful. I’ll make Harry a cup of tea. He’s often so thirsty after you leave him. Now I wonder why that would be?” She looked up at me from under her lashes and smiled. There it was. She knew and she was letting me know. But at that particular moment she did not seem to bear any ill will. 

“Best to keep him hydrated, then,” I said. I turned from her to continue down the stairs, but turned back, “Oh, and Root, I’ll be back soon.” If she liked for me to believe she was always watching me, then I liked for her to believe I was aware of Harold’s well-being and security at every second.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments and kudos!!! Keep them coming! They are highly motivating and are so appreciated. xoxoxo


	6. Root

_“I need you, I need you._   
_Babe I want to drink you in_   
_Like oxygen, like oxygen. . .” -- Sia, House on Fire_

 

“Hello Harry,” I said as I entered the library. I’d made some noise on the stairs and at the gate so I wouldn’t startle him. He really was like a little, baby bird, so easily startled.

“Samantha,” he said without looking up at me. He was intent on whatever was before him.

“I saw your grim savior I my way up,” I said.

“His name is John. Or Mr. Reese. He is your colleague. And he was on his way to meet with Detective Carter. He’s hard at work, which is more than I can say for some people. He’ll be back shortly.”

“So he said.”

“And what pray tell brings you here?”

“I thought maybe we could play that game where I’m your prisoner again. Only this time, for my torture, I have to watch you and your mysterious man give each other hand jobs, or whatever it is you two do for one another. What is it between you anyway? Is it like a friends with benefits sort of thing? Does he do it for money? Or is he like your naughty student?” Harold looked up at me with an expression of pure shock. I couldn’t help but laugh. “Relax, Harry. Of course I know. And I really couldn’t care less, to be honest. I’m even kind of happy for you. He isn’t my flavor of the month, but I think you may have actually found some good code there. Of course, if he is in fact good code, it is only because of his dedicated benefactor.”

His mouth opened and closed a few times as though he were simultaneously gasping for air and uncertain of what to say. “I never tortured you,” was all he managed, his face still warped with confusion and surprise.

“No,” I said. “Of course you didn’t. I’m teasing you, Harry. After three years of marital bliss, I thought you would have understood my sense of humor.” Something about the bewildered pain in his voice sobered me.

“Does anyone ever truly understand another person?” He looked back at his computer screen and it was difficult to know how he was feeling. His question was rhetorical, and meant to distract me, but it brought me back to my mission at hand.

“I need a few days off. And my allowance. And some passports.”

He pushed away from his desk and looked up at me, really looked up at me for the first time since I’d entered the library. “Oh?” he asked.

“Yes. There is a number on which I need to follow up.”

“Number one, you get paid a salary not an allowance. You are not a wayward child, much as you sometimes act like one. And second, you need passports- plural, meaning more than one passport- why exactly?”

“Well, the individual happens to be out of the country. And I’d like to take Sameen with me for back up.”

“When have you ever needed back up?”

“Oh, Harold, your confidence in me is truly inspiring. You’re right, though, I usually do just fine fending for myself. But I thought it would be good for Sameen and I to get to know each other a bit more. Think of it sort of as a team building exercise.”

“Team building?”

“Sure! Work. Team building. Week in Mexico. What difference does it make really?” I smiled as brightly as I could, although I knew it didn’t matter. Harold would give me what I wanted, and if he didn’t, I would use the Machine to find alternate means.

“Samantha,” he started. “I think you should really be wary of Miss Shaw. She isn’t what I would call relationship material.”

“Oh, and John Reese is relationship material?” I countered. “Besides, who said anything about a relationship?” He held my gaze. He really was quite good at eye contact, even though he seemed perpetually frightened of me. His fear wasn’t completely unwarranted, given the beginning of our relationship, however I had no real intention of harming him any more than he wanted to hurt me. He didn’t realize it, but I was actually rather protective of him in a big sisterly sort of way.

“Miss Shaw shot Mr. Reese the first time they met. I don’t think you’re aware of the entire back story,” he said.

“Well, he probably deserved it.”

“Samantha!”

“I’m just joking. Gosh.”

“We are still working on training her to not leave a body count behind her every time she walks into a room.”

“I read her file,” I said. “She’s impressive, that’s for sure. I will admit I’m rather a fan of her work. I think perhaps I could help her with the body count thing, if you allow me to bring her under my wing, and I feel confident I can handle myself just fine with her. But it’s sweet of you to worry about me.”

“How did you-” he started. I rolled my eyes back in the direction of my right ear where She had been implanted.

“Membership has its privileges,” I sighed. “Now I’m going to go make you some tea while you rustle up those passports.” I left him and walked to the kitchen. I put water in the kettle and set it on the stove, then took a couple mugs from a cupboard and put sencha green tea bags into them.

It had been three days since I’d run into Sameen at the Stadium. Well, ‘run into’ wasn’t entirely accurate. I’d located her and watched her for a bit before surprising her with her favorite protein juice. She had been grumpy and skeptical of me and it was adorable. I’d had to rush off to help John out of a bit of a pickle with some Russian thugs, but I’d finished in time to go peek at my dark beauty as she crammed twice her body weight of eggs and waffles into that tiny figure. As I waited for the water to boil, I thought of her pretty mouth opening to bite down fiercely on a hunk of steak. “Oh, Sameen,” I sighed. Steam started to puff out of the kettle. I’d never been much of a cook, but I was going to learn so I could hand feed her like the wild, little animal she was.

I poured the water over the tea bags, stuck a spoon in each mug and was about to bring them back out to Harold when my right ear received a warning buzz. “Behind you,” She said, but there was something warm in her tone, and I didn’t feel the need to reach for my gun. I turned around to find Sameen Shaw standing in the doorway of the kitchen.

“Speak of the Devil and the Devil shall appear,” I said, unable to contain my excitement. She didn’t say anything, just kind of stared at me with a dubious expression. “I’m happy to see you, Sameen.”

“I don’t think I can say the same,” she grumbled.

“No worries. You will. Someday.” I smiled. “Would you like some tea, Sweetie? I was just about to bring some out to Harold.”

“I’m good. Thanks. What’s this I hear about an assignment?”

“Oh did Harold spoil the surprise?” I said, feeling momentarily disappointed, then brushed it off, realizing he was going to allow her to accompany me. “Yes. I’m requiring your assistance with a number in Mexico. I heard you love enchiladas and margaritas, and thought you would be the perfect companion for this little tryst.”

“Companion for a tryst?” Sameen repeated, her eyebrow doing that cute thing where it pokes up at her messy bangs.

“Absolutely. In addition to the delicious Mexican food there will also be shooting. Lots and lots of shooting,” I bragged. I had planned quite the weekend for her.

For a second she looked like she was going to argue, then she shrugged and said, “Cool.”

“Great,” I said. “Let’s get packed, Sweetie. We are going to have such a wonderful time


	7. Root

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our lovely ladies explore Mexico and take a dip in the Caribbean. This chapter contains sexual content.

_“Baby I’m a house on fire_   
_And I want to keep burning_   
_I’m going up in flames_   
_And you’re to blame,_   
_Yeah, you’re to blame_   
_Baby I’m a house on fire_   
_And I want to keep burning. . .” -- Sia, House on Fire_

 

“What should we toast to?” I asked, raising my glass and extending one to her.

“Uh, should we be drinking on the job?” She asked, but took the crystal flute anyway.

“We have about six hours of travel, and it’s just a little champagne. And I got the impression you weren’t really a stickler for rules, Sameen.”

“Good point,” she snorted. “Bottoms up then!”

“No! Wait, wait Miss Patience of a Flood,” I laughed. “We have to find something to toast to first. You pick.”

“I don’t know. Work?” She crinkled her brow in a sweet scowl at me.

“Really? That’s all you can come up with? Honestly, Sameen, I’m a bit disappointed. I thought you’d be a little more fun than that. There is more to life than simply work.”

“Not in my life there’s not,” she said and something about the way she said it made me sad. I told her as much and she said, “Look. You read my file. You know I have a diagnosis. It’s part of what makes me a good asset. I don’t feel things the same way other people do. Joy. Fear. Sorrow. It’s all the same to me. Work gives me the closest estimation of what other people might call passion. I like puzzles and I like to solve them. It’s why I enjoyed medicine, but it’s also why I made a shitty surgeon. I didn’t necessarily care about the human on the table in front of me, just about fixing their parts. And please. Don’t give me that face. It’s nothing to feel sorry for me about, unless you want to piss me off, and then by all means feel sorry for me. Anger I do. Anger I like because it usually leads to violence, and violence is about as close as I get to having fun.”

“I see,” I said. She was like a little robot with those razor words firing out of her plum painted lips and those tiny fingers making air quotes around every other word. “And I absolutely do not feel sorry for you, but there must be other things you enjoy in life besides work and violence.”

“Food, fucking, and fighting,” she huffed, settling in her seat. She smiled and it was ravishing and devious the way her teeth emerged and shimmered against her mouth. “So how about we toast to tacos and donkey shows? I mean we are going to Mexico, right?” She held her glass up in front of my face and I could tell she was testing me, being provocative to see what I would do with it.

“Has anyone ever told you that you are just precious?” I asked. She had just taken a big gulp of her champagne and she choked on it.

“That is probably the last word anyone would ever use to describe me,” she grumbled. She wiped at her mouth with her hand.

“But you are,” I said, lowering my voice and leaning in closer to her. “Absolutely precious.” I took a sip of my champagne. I was so close to her ear, I could have stuck my tongue out and licked her soft-looking lobe. It was tempting.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re just crazy?” She turned her face so our noses were practically touching.

“Of course,” I replied. I held her gaze until she finally shrugged, looked away, and sipped her champagne. We both reclined in our seats. I’d splurged for first class tickets and they were worth every penny, I thought, lying back with her by my side. I sighed. “I’ve been called crazy many, many times.”

“Figures,” she said. She stretched and drained her glass. I took a peek at my watch. The sodium pentathol I slipped in her champagne would take about twenty minutes to fully kick in, so I dreamed up some small talk (that is, small talk which wasn’t too girly) to kill the time before I could get to the important stuff. I was so close to her, I could feel the warmth of her body radiating onto my own. She’d taken off the light sweater she’d had over her black tank top, and I admired the silky flesh of her bare arms. I wanted to touch her. I wanted to poke one of my fingers in between her dark lips, feel her teeth and tongue on my own flesh. I wanted to get my fingers tangled in that thick, black ponytail, twist it around my fist, pull her head back and bite the delicate skin over her neck. I wanted so much and so fast. It was surprising and very natural all at once.

“So, do you speak any Spanish?” I asked her, swallowing hard to digest my desire before it got the better of me.

“Nada,” she said. “I speak German and some Iranian. But I’m a fast study. Part of my charm to the CIA was my ability to pick up language.”

“Bueno,” I said, wondering if the drugs had taken effect on her quicker than I’d expected, or if I had miscalculated and slipped her more than was necessary. She was more chatty than she usually was. It was fun to hear her voice, to hear her reference other parts of her life. Of course I knew a good deal already from reading the file I’d nipped from a desk in an office in a building someplace, but hearing her talk about herself was an unexpected treat. Maybe she hadn’t eaten breakfast and the drugs were easily absorbed in her empty stomach. Either way, I was enraptured.

“Have you ever heard of quantum entanglement?” I asked. I felt like a fool, but I was a little breathless, almost giddy with being so near her.

“Can’t say as though I have,” she replied a bit sleepily.

“Well, it’s the theory that we start thinking very intently and intensely about someone because they are thinking of us as well. It’s a spiritual engagement of sorts, a manner of souls meeting their mate throughout space and time.”

“And you are telling me this why, exactly?” She had closed her eyes, but opened them to look at me dubiously.

“I can’t help but wonder, Sameen, if you have been thinking as intently of me as I have of you.”

She leaned in close to me, so close I could smell the champagne on her breath, and feel the little gusts of air as she spoke. “You have the weirdest way of flirting, Mrs. Groves-Finch,” she slurred.

“Oh, you haven’t been subjected to even the half of it, Sweetie,” I whispered. “And please, call me Root. I insist.”

“Fair enough. Root.” She tripped over the ‘t’ at the end of my name. Her eyes rolled a little bit and she inhaled sharply. She tried to sit up, but struggled in her seat against the weight of the drug coursing over her body. “What did you-” she started.

“Relax. Just sit back and relax.”

“No. I feel strange. What did you put in my drink?”

“Nothing at all. Perhaps the altitude is just enhancing the alcohol. Or maybe you get a little nervous when you fly? Really, relax and it will pass. We can hold hands if you’d like.” I extended my hand to her. She pushed it away, and leaned back in her chair. “Thatta’ girl,” I said as she settled. I waited for a few more minutes before her breathing slowed, before saying, “Tell me about Northern Lights. What was ‘Catalyst Indigo’?”

“Negative,” she mumbled. Her eyes were closed and her head was back.

“Come on, Sweetie. Tell me about Northern Lights. They killed your partner, right? Tell me about the one they call Control.”

“Not gonna’ happen,” she said and turned her face.

“Cole, then,” I said. “Talk to me about Cole.”

“Nope.” She opened her eyes and looked at me with a dazed smile. “From the way my muscles are relaxing, I am guessing you used a barbiturate in my drink. Sodium Pentathol maybe? Now, for other people that may be a truth serum, but for me it is just very sedating. Guess they left that out of my file. Nighty night.”

She turned her head away from me, and fell asleep with a contented, little smile on her lips. After a few moments, I realized my mouth was hanging open like a fish. I closed it and suppressed a giggle. I indulged in another glass of champagne, and I’m not ashamed to say I watched her sleep for the better part of the flight. I may have even leaned over her to sweep her bangs off of her face, to press a kiss onto her slightly parted lips, and to whisper, “Beautiful girl,” into her ear as she slept.

She woke shortly before we touched down. As she stretched, she regarded me with a smug smile and said, “Ahhh, refreshing. I love to get a good nap in on a flight.”

We passed through Customs without any issues. Harold always had perfect passports prepared so I could travel with ease and never spent a second thought on whether or not I’d seem suspicious. We found our limo and the driver put our bags into the trunk as we climbed into the back seat. “Can I get you a drink?” I asked her.

“Thanks, but I think I’ll stick with water,” she said, grabbing a bottle and twisting off the top. “Barbiturates make me so thirsty.”

“Mmmh. Well, in this tropical heat, you should definitely stay hydrated,” I said.

She pounced on me, put her hand around my throat and pressed me back against the seat. “If you ever drug me again, I will fucking kill you, Root,” she hissed. Her face was only an inch away from mine, and the pressure of her fingers on my neck made me gush in my panties. My breath hitched, and I closed my eyes as though I were expecting her to kiss me. “Holy shit,” she spat and released me with a shove. “Does this turn you on?”

“What if it does?” I asked, rubbing my neck.

“Then you are even more twisted than I thought,” she said and snorted a little laugh.

“Like I said on the plane, you don’t know the half of what makes me tick. And for the record, if I had really wanted, I would have gotten the truth out of you, but we were on a plane and the FAA doesn’t let me keep my finer implements with me when I fly. Either way, we will have our little chat, and my guess is that you will enjoy it, but we should attend to business before pleasure. We are going to need guns.”

“And where, pray tell, are we going to get those?”

“Hush,” I said and then focused on the voice in my right ear. “Really?” I asked God. She replied in the affirmative. “Well okay then.” I pressed the button to lower the screen so I could give the driver directions.

“Care to share what in the actual fuck is going on?”

“Not really, Sweetie. Best to just take the leap of faith. That’s what I always do.”

The driver pulled up in front of a church. A banner was painted above the festive-looking red door of the main building that read ‘Sangre de Christo Rescitado.’ I waited for the driver to open my door and then stepped out into the sun and heat. “Gracias,” I told him. “You’ll please wait for us right here. Sameen, come along, Sweetie.”

“Church, Root? You’re taking me to church? What the hell?”

“Oh ye of little faith,” I smiled at her. “Just wait.” It was the first of many little surprises I had lined up for her. We entered the church and headed down the main aisle towards the front. A bloody and very realistic crucifix was suspended in the air above the altar. “So what do you think, Sameen? Will we have a church wedding, or do you suppose a justice of the peace is more our speed? Of course there are those who would expect us to just live in sin, but I’d like to make honest women of each other someday.”

“Have you lost your mind?” She looked around the church, then said, as if to Jesus on the cross, “She’s actually lost her mind.”

“My mind is just as found as it’s ever been, maybe even more so,” I said looking at her. Even in her boots she was shorter than me. I could have leaned down and dropped a kiss onto her forehead, but I just stood there, utterly at ease, and smiled at her. “You just haven’t realized how perfect we are for one another yet. But it’s a fact.”

“Really?” Her voice echoed sardonically in the empty church. “And what do you base this ‘fact’ on?”

“I’d rather show you over the course of time. Think of it as my way of wooing you.”

“Wooing,” she repeated. “I hate to disappoint you, Root, but it’s not going to happen. And that’s a ‘fact’.”

“Oh, Sweetie. I’d love to hear all the reasons you base your ‘fact’ on, and gosh these air quotes are fun, but we have some business to attend to at the moment.” I turned slightly to listen, realizing for a moment the full irony of my God speaking to me in a church. “Well this is a first,” I said lightly. “Name? Now? Well alrighty then.”

“This thing you do where you talk to yourself is seriously creepy,” she hissed at me. I opened my mouth to address her, but the black clad man stepped out of the shadows of the sacristy and started towards us. I saw Sameen reach instinctively towards the back of her belt and then she said, “Shit,” under her breath when she realized there was nothing there.

“Relax, Sameen,” I said, quiet but firm, and then, “Padre Rodrigo, we were told we could find you here. We are in need of some particular items that we understand you possess and are willing to sell for the right price.”

“Who sent you here, my children?” His face was very tan, and deeply creased with wrinkles, so his dark eyes seemed to be but black slits at the top of his face.

“Petra, sent us, Padre.”

“Ah,” he said and nodded. “And she had a message for me?”

“Of course,” I said and tuned into the voice, then repeated, “She said to tell you the angel of the Lord appeared in a blazing fire from the midst of a bush, and yet the bush was not consumed with fire.”

“Petra,” he said slowly, his accent thick. “She always did resonate with Exodus, did she not? Welcome to mi iglesia.” He held his hand out to me and I shook it. He then held out his hand for Sameen to shake, but she just looked back and forth between Rodrigo and me with an annoyed and bewildered expression. He put his hand down once he realized she wouldn’t shake it. I smiled at both of them. “This way,” he said and walked back towards the sacristy.

We passed behind the altar and through a small door that was built into the wall behind the choir stalls, then down a narrow staircase that spiraled down for several floors. When we were well underground, the priest led us through a series of hallways of formidable length. Sameen shot me a look of concern, and I gave her a placid smile and nod in return. “Don’t worry,” I mouthed silently to her. She tightened her lips and furrowed her brow in response. I extended my hand to her, as I had on the plane, and she pushed it away, as she had on the plane.

We stopped in front of a door for a moment while the priest took off the little, stiff, white band from his collar and put it in his pocket. He opened the door, but I was focused on watching Sameen’s expression. Kind of like when you give a baby a cake for it’s first birthday and you just want to witness the joy on their face as they smash into it and taste sugar for the first time. It was worth every millisecond of her previous consternation to see the expression on her face when Padre Rodrigo opened the door. Her mouth dropped and she moved in a circle that reminded me of Maria in the Sound of Music, twirling over the mountaintops, taking in the view.

Guns. All kinds of guns filled the cavernous basement room.

“I haven’t seen this much hardware, since. . .” she started, but trailed off.

“Put’s Harold’s arsenal to shame, that’s for sure,” I said. “Pick out anything you want, Sweetie. This treat is on me.” I chose two Glocks for my waistband, and a Colt for my ankle. I also picked up a couple of knives and boxes of bullets. While I was busy picking out some practical sniper rifles, Sameen wandered the aisles picking up pieces, sampling their weight in her hands and aiming them at imaginary targets. Rodrigo watched her carefully. He looked at me and I said, “Like a kid in a candy store, am I right?”

“Please tell me we are going to get a chance to use all of this while we are here,” she said.

“You are so cute when you want to shoot stuff,” I said. Then I turned to Rodrigo and said, “Throw in a couple of the Berettas and how about some of those Rugers? I find the red trigger to be quaint, but not too, uh, girly.” I smiled at Sameen who was grinning from ear to ear. I unfolded a wad of cash and settled up with the priest. He, in turn, commanded one of his men to pack everything for us in a discreet duffel bag, save for the pieces Sameen and I tucked into our ankles and waistbands. “Thank you, Padre, for your assistance. Your generosity will not be forgotten.”

“Bless you, my daughters,” he said and made the sign of the cross over our heads.

“Amen,” Sameen said with a smirk.

We made our way back through the hallways, and up into the light of the church. As we walked out to the limo, I shouldered the duffel bag, turned to her and asked, “So, are we having fun yet?”

“Fuck yeah, we are,” she cheered and my heart leapt. We climbed into the limo and I gave the driver the name of our hotel. I’d arranged for us to stay in a very private and secluded resort. “So will we be picking up some ear pieces and burner cells so Finch can help us find our number, or do you have those hidden away someplace?”

“No, Sweetie,” I sighed, leaning back against the car seat. “We don’t need Finch to help us.”

“Uh, so how are we going to go about this?”

“I’ve got it covered. Trust me.” I said. I rolled my head against the seat until I was looking right at her. I felt a bit fatigued, but she looked energized and excited. All that gun metal I guess. “First, I thought we could check into our hotel, maybe have a little lunch and a swim. The rooms I booked for us open onto the ocean. How do you feel about tequila slammers?”

“When in Rome,” she shrugged.

“Excellent.” I reached over and took her hand, squeezed her fingers and then brought them to my lips. “Maybe we can find some way for you to thank me for all your new presents.”

She issued a deep and throaty chuckle. “Look. I’m not going to even try to deny that you are hot. But you’re also married. And I do not do married chicks.”

“Married? Oh, you mean Harry? He and I are hardly married. I mean, legally sure, sort of. On paper we are Mr. and Mrs. Finch. But in reality we are anything but married. Our real last names aren’t even Finch. Even paper lies.”

“Well, why did you get real or fake married then?”

“Oh, Sweetie. It’s complicated. It’s a long story, and I’d so much rather not talk about Harold when I am here in the Caribbean with you.” We pulled up in front of the hotel. “Let’s get settled and have some food and drink. I’m sure you must be peckish after our long trip.”

We had separate but adjoining rooms. Sliding doors opened onto patios that led down to the sea. I immediately stripped out of my travelling clothes and wrapped myself into a sarong and nothing else. When I walked out of my room onto the patio, Sameen was already there, swinging in a hammock. She was still wearing her black pants and tank top, as well as her boots. I walked over to her, my bare feet soaking up the heat of the cement and sand. “Aren’t you broiling in those black clothes?” I asked her.

“I didn’t pack any tropical wear,” she said and squinted up at me from the hammock. “Actually, I don’t own any tropical wear. I think you do the whole coral and turquoise thing much better than me,” she added and gestured at my sarong.

“You could borrow some of mine,” I offered. “Or we could just go al fresco. It’s quite private here.” I started to untie my sarong.

“What about our number?” She asked. “Don’t we have work to do?”

“All work and no play makes Root and Sameen very dull girls,” I said and allowed my sarong to fall into the sand beneath the hammock. She sat up and looked me up and down, her body swinging in the hammock with the weight of her motion.

“Oh, fuck,” she said. I felt her eyes travel up and down over my naked flesh. I closed my eyes and moaned against her gaze. I didn’t need God to tell me Sameen’s pulse and respiration rates had quickened. I opened my eyes and looked down to find her looking up at me with the same lusty expression with which she took in all those guns.

I turned from her and began to walk down to the sea. I didn’t look back. I could hear her tumble out of the hammock. I could hear the gentle rustle of her taking off her shirt, kicking off her boots, and wiggling out of her pants. I desperately wanted to watch her undress, to watch all that delicious skin make itself known to the sun and my eyes, but I did not look back.

The water was warm and I kept walking until I was in it up to my waist, then I turned and looked back at her. She was naked at the water’s edge, looking slightly angular and awkward, but luminous none the less. I dipped my hands down into the water and splashed a wave of water back at her as she walked toward me. Beads of water caught her skin, making her sparkle as she continued in my direction. I took a few steps into the water until it was up to my breasts. When she was in up to her waist, she dove underwater and swam toward where I stood. Her body passed me underwater, and I could not tell if it was the ripples of the ocean or her own skin that touched me as she passed. When she popped up a few feet from me, I swam to join her.

“Hi there,” I said.

“Hey,” she said. She was treading water, but I still had my feet on the ocean floor. I pulled her floating body into mine, expecting resistance, and delighting when instead she wrapped her legs around my waist. I slipped my arms around her, held her weightless body against me in the water. Her breasts floated against mine. The current fluttered between and around our bodies, making everything feel swollen and exquisitely sensitive. She squeezed her legs around me, pressed her mound against my belly. I gasped and held her tighter, moving one hand down to cup her ass. I was so close, so deliriously close. My fingers could have walked right into her center. I knew she would be wet, just like me. I knew she would be very hot and it would feel so wonderful for both of us.

“What a tiny, pretty, perfect girl you are, Sameen Shaw,” I said and pulled her into my kiss. Her lips were wet and tasted of salt. I licked at them greedily and then slipped my tongue into her silky mouth. I moaned against her lips as she rubbed herself against my tummy. Unable to resist, I moved my hand from her ass, snaked it down between us so I could touch myself. I had to come. I needed to come with her in my arms, right there in the sea.

But she pushed my hand away, as she had done on the plane and in the church. She pushed my hand away and put her own hand down between us. She bit my lower lip, hard, as she found my core and began to stroke. The tide had brought us closer to shore, and now she was standing in between one of my thighs, rubbing against me as she worked my bundle of nerves into a fiery frenzy. She lowered her face to my breast, which was still underwater, and she bit and kneaded my submerged nipple with her teeth and tongue. I fought to get my hand down to where she was grinding against me, crying out when I finally felt my fingers slip into her. She came up for air and we kissed hard.

It had been ages since I’d cried out to God during sex.

But as I felt her tighten around my fingers, pulsing, writhing and getting ready to climax, it was so divine, I could not help it.

God forgive me, as she came and I followed, once and then again, I could not help myself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I know it took me a little longer to get this chapter up, but it is a longer chapter. I was originally going to chop it up into installments, but I thought it flowed better as one long piece. I hope you enjoy it, or at least that you will leave some of your glorious and very helpful comments to let me know how it's going. Thank you so much for reading. xoxoxo.


	8. Finch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we find out what the boys are up to while the girls are in Mexico. Please note, this chapter contains sexual material and may be NSFW.

I asked him to stay the night.

“When the cat’s away, Harold?” He teased. He was behind me as I stirred the pot of pasta on the stove, and he wrapped his arms around my waist, held me tight against him. I could feel him grow hard against me. I smiled into the steam and sighed.

“Indeed,” I said. “Shall we play, then?”

I’d invited him over for cocktails and dinner, and I’d assumed it would lead to other activities. It wasn’t often we had a whole house to ourselves. Of course there were hotels and apartments at our disposal, but there was something different about having a whole house, a stocked kitchen, ample supplies of wine, and Ella Fitzgerald playing on the stereo.

He kissed my neck as he pressed into me. It was so hot near the stove. I felt meek, stirring my pots, an apron tied around me, his mouth on my neck. I told him as much; I said, “You make me feel so tame, John. So stayed and kept.” He licked my earlobe.

“Have you ever been wild, though, Harold?” He always called me by my full name, never ‘Harry’ like Samantha called me. I loved the way my name came from between his lips, his voice low, husky, audible only to me.

“You make a valid point,” I said. “I suppose my version of being wild is different from most, although I must say when you hold me like that, it is enough to make me feel fairly savage, which might not be such a great thing if you want your pasta cooked al dente, and your fra diavolo cooked just right.”

“Pasta for the devil, eh?” He let go of my waist, and as though reading my mind, he picked up the bottle of wine I’d chosen for the occasion and set to opening it. “Am I your devil, Harold?” He asked as he pulled the cork smoothly from the bottle.

“Not at all,” I said. “But I know you enjoy your food spicy, and I am happy to oblige.”

He sniffed at the bottle and I raised an eyebrow. My tall companion knew about as much about wine as I did about Samantha’s nail polish. “I love it when you cook Italian,” he said and poured the wine into glasses. I’ve always loved that noise, the sound of a good wine being decanted into a good glass. I closed my eyes to enjoy it and thought, _And I just love you, John._ But it was not something I could say. Not yet.

We sat at the dining room table, candles lit, and I served him a hot plate of homemade food, glass after glass of decadent wine, hunks of thick, Italian bread with oil and cheese and red pepper flakes. Had he allowed it, I would have fed him, bite by bite, with my own hand. As it was, it delighted me to watch him eat, to admire his jaw as it masticated each bite of my cooking. Watching him sop up his sauce with a piece of bread, I grew hard, right there at the table. I could feel myself dripping with want in my pants.

“An excellent meal, as usual,” he said. He wiped his face with the cloth napkin and pushed back from the table to finish what was left of his wine. I wanted to taste his mouth. I wanted to luxuriate in all of the flavors of shrimp, lobster, spicy red sauce, butter and wine that I knew lingered over his tongue.

“Let’s go to bed,” I said lustily, almost begging.

“Or I could take you right here, on your dining room table,” he said and rose from his seat. He approached me with a wicked grin. The proposition had merit, but I wanted to feel his body entirely naked against mine on my expensive sheets. I wanted to hold him for the entire night, to wake in his arms and make love again in the dawn light.

“Please, John, take me to bed.” He shook his head at my request. I stood to meet him, and we embraced. He kissed me as I desired, his firm mouth and tongue were relentless and savory. I tried again. “I want to go to bed.”

He liked to please me, and he quite often acquiesced, but he had his limits. He cared for me in his own way, and there was a part of me that did not want to admit _his way_ would never be enough to match the adoration I felt for him.

No. He would not take me to bed.

He pushed me up against the wall of the dining room. I could feel the chair rail against my backside. He undid my belt and trousers, and even in my disappointment at him not taking me to bed, I sprang forth, rock hard and eager when he pushed down my pants and boxers. He allowed me to do the same to him, and I found him in much the same condition, hard and hot. He unbuttoned my shirt and I his, and we pressed against one another’s flesh with the urgency of teenagers. Our hands stroked the flesh of our backs and torsos as we pushed our members together between our bellies. “John. Oh, John,” I whispered as he kissed and bit my neck. I wanted to lower myself to my knees, to take him in my mouth. It was something he rarely allowed me to do, but something that I loved because it made me feel so close to him. I started to slide down.

“No,” he murmured and caught me by my shoulders, held me fast against the wall. One of his hands came down from my shoulder to clutch our manhoods in his fist. He squeezed them together and we both looked down and moaned when we saw the drops of excitement shimmer on their tips. Whatever I had wanted before evaporated into the ether as he stroked us together in his velvet hand. He pushed my hand away when I tried to take a turn, tried to touch him. “Let me,” he said and I was helpless to do otherwise. I contented myself to wrap my arm around him, grab and knead his ass as we pumped against one another. I could tell by his breath he was getting close. He used the ridge of my head to stimulate the soft, sensitive spot underneath his, and kissed me deeply. He came with a quiet grunt, his seed spilling onto me in a series of hot gushes. He used his own semen to lubricate me, and continued until I cried out against his lips and came for him, in his hand.

We showered together and I asked him to stay the night. “Samantha won’t be home for days,” I offered.

“I can’t,” he said. He didn’t offer any other details and I couldn’t avoid my frustration.

“Where are you off to?” I asked, trying not to sound as peevish as I truly felt.

“I have to meet Carter,” he replied. He looked right into my eyes as he told me. We had sworn to be truthful, even when it hurt, as it did then.

“I see,” I said. “And will she feed you too?”

“Harold,” he began. “Please understand.”

“Oh, I think I understand just perfectly. Do you stay with her? When she asks you, do you stay the night with her, John?”

“It’s a little more complicated than that, and you know it.”

“Yes. Yes I do know it.” I left the shower and wrapped myself in a robe. He finished rinsing the soap off of his body and followed me out of the shower. He toweled off and started to dress, leaving the wet towel on the floor. “The least you can do is pick up your wet towel from the bathroom floor, John,” I snapped, not caring that I sounded beyond peevish. He picked up the towel, folded it and put it on the towel bar. He gave me an inquisitive look and put his hands out, palms up in front of him as though wondering if this paltry gesture had satisfied me.

“Thank you for dinner. It was delicious,” he said. He came to me and kissed my cheeks and then my lips. I could still taste the garlic of my sauce on his breath. It made me hungry for more of him than he would give me. I wrapped my arms around him, clutched at him.

“Please stay,” I asked again.

“Next time, Harold.”

“It’s always ‘next time’ with you, John. Maybe I’m done with this crude charade. Maybe there won’t be a next time.”

“There’s always next time,” he whispered in my ear and kissed my forehead. Then he finished dressing in silence and left.

I had asked him to stay the night, and he had left. Again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, as always, for reading. I am loving the comments so much! Comments totally make my day, so please feel free to let me know what you are thinking. xoxoxo


	9. Shaw

We trudged up from the water to find a meal had been set on the patio for us. There was a big platter of fruit, and covered baskets of other things, set neatly on a glass table. There was an ice bucket with a bottle of white wine, and another bucket filled with ice and beer next to a little platter of sliced limes. 

“Oh, man,” I said feeling greedy and thirsty. “It’s like they read my mind.” I grabbed a beer and wedged a lime into it, stuck my thumb into the hole and tipped it over so the lime floated to the bottom of the bottle. “When in Rome,” I said and sucked happily on the beer. 

I took the metal cover off of a plate to find a huge cheeseburger and fries beneath. I sat down, naked and soaking wet, and stuffed a bite of the cheeseburger into my face. Root smiled as she slipped back into her sarong, twisted it in front, then tied it behind her neck. She poured herself a glass of the wine and took a sip. She sat down and plucked a piece of green melon out of the fruit plate. She nibbled on it, but her eyes never left me. I stopped chewing. 

“What?” I asked around my mouthful of meat and cheese. I looked behind me and wiped at my face. 

“How’s your burger?” She asked. 

“Perfect,” I said and took another bite. “Medium rare, no vegetables, cheddar cheese instead of American. It’s almost like someone knew exactly how. . .” I trailed off and looked at her. She was smiling at me, looking at me with a silky expression that I didn’t know of what to make. 

It was the meal I always enjoyed after a good fuck. 

I thought of the day she brought my juice to the Stadium, how she had gotten that perfect. Just the way I liked it. Maybe this chick wasn’t so bad afterall, even if she was an incredibly creepy stalker who knew where all the guns in Mexico were hidden. Fuck. That had been impressive. Like, better than Christmas impressive. Root wasn’t as picture perfect as Martine, and she certainly wasn’t going to be as much of a freak in the sack as Martine had been (at least as far as I could tell), but I had to admit, there was something about her. Beneath her fuzzy exterior, I sensed danger and darkness, like there was a creature locked up in a dungeon inside her. 

I wanted to find that cage and invite the creature out to play. Or battle. Preferably both. 

“You’re going to get a sunburn, Sweetie,” she said. She cocked her head slightly and said, “Tell the front desk to bring a sarong for Sameen. Something in black,” she said and rolled her eyes a little bit when she said ‘black.’ “Or at least a very dark violet.” 

“What. The. Fuck.” I said looking around. “Do you need to take your meds or something?” 

“I’m just fine,” she said and popped a grape into her mouth. A man in the hotel uniform approached our table, as though out of nowhere, and handed me a deep, plum-colored piece of fabric. “Thank you, Juan,” Root said, reading his name tag pointedly. 

“Can I get you ladies anything else?” He gazed at a fixed point on the horizon, avoiding my nakedness. It made me snicker. 

“I think we are set for now. That will be all.” She waved him off and ate another piece of fruit as I sat there with the sarong in my lap, naked and confused. “Do you know how to put on the sarong? There are different ways of wearing one, of course.” 

I wrapped the sarong around me like a towel. She smiled and shrugged. “So,” I said. “Do you plan on telling me how you do that?”

“How I do what, Sweetie?” 

“Don’t play with me, Root. You know what I mean. That thing where you pull a rabbit out of thin air. And by rabbit, of course I mean finding the best guns in Mexico in a crazy church basement and making it rain sarongs.” 

“Well, it didn’t actually rain sarongs. I actually just procured one sarong.” She had the most intense eye contact of anyone I’d ever met. Normally, I avoided intense eye contact. Normally, eye contact made me uncomfortable. But there was something captivating about Root, something that made me curios rather than aloof- and it was that curiosity as opposed to the eye contact that made me uncomfortable. I broke her gaze and looked away for a moment. Much to my surprise, I shivered as I remembered her fingers and lips in the water, the taste of her nipple in the salt of the sea. 

“Fuck,” I whispered and shook my head to clear my thoughts. I stuffed a few fries into my mouth and chewed. “Are these drugged?” I asked, grabbing another bottle of beer from a bucket on the table and repeating the lime ritual. She shook her head, still watching my every move with those amber eyes. 

“No more drugs,” she said quietly. “Unless of course you want to. I had been thinking that Molly might be fun for us, although after that delightful performance in the water, I don’t imagine we will need any chemical enhancement in or lovemaking. No. I’m hoping we can come to a bit of an understanding. Kind of a ‘you show me yours and I’ll show you mine’ arrangement.” She reached over to my plate and took a fry off of it. She brought it to her lips and ate it in little bites with her front teeth. It was on the tip of my tongue to tell her if she touched my grub again I would cut her, but I was transfixed just watching her, listening to her voice lazily fill the space in between the ocean waves. 

“Did you actually just say ‘lovemaking’?” I asked. 

“Mmmmh. I did.” She smiled at me and brought her feet up to her chair so she could hug her knees. 

“Uh. Okay. Look. I’m not sure if I gave you some kind of mixed message, but I do not ‘make love’. I fuck. We fucked. That was fucking.”

“Fair enough,” she sighed. “It’s all just semantics. Whatever you want to call it, it was lovely.”

“Lovely?” I snorted. I took a long pull on my beer. Her smile faded, but she continued looking at me with eyes that seemed amused, but intense as ever. 

“It was hot,” she whispered soft as the waves and wind. “Fucking you was fucking hot, Sameen. I plan on fucking you again. And again. I plan on fucking you hard. I plan on fucking you so hard you squirt all over both of us. I plan on fucking you with my tongue and with my fingers and with toys. I will fuck you until we are both sore for days, and then I will leave you begging for more, begging me to fuck you and fuck you and fuck you. How does that sound? Better?”

She finished her little speech and I swallowed hard, realizing that while she’d been speaking, a mouthful of beer had turned into a warm puddle on my tongue. Something about the way she enunciated each and every ‘fuck’ that came out of her mouth had made a hot coil of nerves tingle in my gut. “Well, aren’t you just full of surprises,” I said, smiling in spite of myself. 

“Churro?” She took the top off of a napkin-lined basket and offered me a fried pastry, covered in cinnamon and sugar. I snatched one and bit into it. “Do you want ice cream to go with that?” 

“No. I don’t want any ice cream. I want to know how you do what you do.” I tried to steer us away from fucking and back to the conversation at hand. I tried to stay focused and dignified while licking sugar off of my fingers and readjusting the sarong which was sliding down my torso. 

“God talks to me,” she said. 

“So, you’re not going to tell me then. All right. I’m going to go in and shower.” I tossed the churro on the table and started to stand, but she spoke again.

“Sit down, Sameen. I’m telling you the truth. Well, my truth anyway. I call Her God. You called it Research. Harold calls it the Machine. It’s all the same thing, but She chose me to be Her analogue interface. She speaks to me. She speaks through me.” 

“How? How exactly does she speak to you?” I asked. I could tell from her expression she was being serious, but I was still incredulous. The jury was still out on whether or not she was nuts, and I was guessing when it came back it would have an affirmative verdict. 

“In here.” She tapped her right ear. “I had a cochlear implant so I wouldn’t have to depend on phones or computers. It was too risky for me to be apart from Her. So, I had Her implanted, so to speak. And now she is forever cozy in me, right next to my brain. I made Harold do it after he checked me out of the institution. Well, Harold didn’t actually do the surgery. I found the best surgeon and Harold drove me to him. It took some convincing. I mean, he really didn’t want to do it, and I think part of him was jealous She had chosen me, but eventually he did it. I can be very persuasive, you see.” 

“Yeah, I think I’ve had a taste of your powers of persuasion,” I said, trying to understand everything she was telling me. “Why you? Why did it chose you?” 

“I don’t know why She chose me. But She did.” 

“So, that’s how you knew where to find the guns?”

“Yup.” 

“And that’s how you found me at the Stadium that day, and knew about my juice?” 

“Yes. I can also tell you what, when and where you enjoy breakfast. And as you just tasted, I also know how you like your burgers. But those things are fairly trivial compared to what She and I usually communicate about.” 

“This thing, it makes you pretty powerful, doesn’t it?” 

“It does. Yes. In many ways it does. And She is a power I chose to use for good. Well, most of the time anyway. But better that you stay on my good side, Sweetie, just in case I decide to take a walk on Her wild side.” She plucked another grape from the fruit plate and rolled it between her front teeth before biting down on it and smiling at me. “We could rule the world, Sameen. Or indulge in some approximation of ruling that involves saving people and lots of celebratory fucking of one another.” 

I rubbed my face and squinted at her in the sun which was setting behind her. I needed some sunglasses. And maybe it was the heat or the beer or the blood raging in my groin in a nearly explosive manner, but her offer sounded pretty tempting. “I’ll have to think about it,” was all I said. 

“I’d expect nothing less, Sweetie,” she said. She stood up and came over to stand before me. She bent down and used her hand to angle my face toward hers so she could kiss me on my lips. I allowed it for a couple seconds before breaking away. She smiled, content as a cat, walked up the patio into her room, and slid the glass door silently closed behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been utterly adoring your comments. Thank you so very much. xoxo.


	10. The Machine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are two lines of dialogue that I borrowed directly from the show. . . you'll know them when you see them (they relate to 4AF). I want to be certain that I am NOT taking credit for the work of the writers of Person of Interest, and that I very much adore and appreciate their existence.

They sat in a dark corner. The smaller one, she prefered the darkness. The tall one didn’t seem to care where she was as long as she was near the petite, raven-haired one. Their differences in size and personality made them irreconcilably different and perfectly the same. My analogue interface leaned in closer and stroked the slim, bare arm of her counterpart. 

“Counterpart? Really?” She looked around and found the security camera in the corner of the bar from where I was watching her. “I think ‘lover’ is more accurate.” 

“It is so fucking creepy when you do that,” Shaw said, stuffed a bite of burrito into her mouth, and washed it down with a gulp of margarita. She looked up into my blinking red light and said, “And I am not her lover. We fucked.” 

“Best you get used to it, Sweetie. She and I share an abiding sympatico. But you don’t have to be jealous. Not ever. She will never come between you and I. And the semantics of what you want to call us and our intimacy doesn’t matter to me. I’m fine with whatever you want to call it.” 

“Root. What are you not understanding? There is no ‘you and I’. The sex was nice. Like, really nice. But this is not going to be a thing. I’m not exactly what you would call a one woman- or man- sort of girl.” 

“I’m fine with that too, Sameen. I’m not the jealous sort. You can have your liaisons and then you can come home to me.”

“Uh, Root. You’re married. Aren’t you supposed to go home to Finch? Also known as my new boss?” 

“You know, Sameen, I am finding more and more evidence every day that you could not possibly be sociopathic. High functioning autism, maybe. But my dear, you seem especially focused on these silly rules and titles. I was so sure you were going to be a little more fast and loose. Really, my marriage to Harold is just a technicality. And my tender-hearted husband abides by the motto ‘happy wife, happy life.’ So, Harold will not be a problem for us. I plan on asking him to set us up in an apartment when we return. You strike me as a loft kind of girl. High ceilings? Industrial decor? Am I right?” 

Sameen took another bite of her burrito. Root raised her margarita glass to her lips and flicked her tongue out at the salty rim. They had found a small restaurant on the water, a couple miles from their hotel, where I had led them through my interface. “You are crazy.” Sameen said with her mouth full, but she smiled as she said it. 

“Crazy in love,” Root replied. Root reached over to wipe at a little blob of hot sauce that had settled next to the corner of Shaw’s mouth.

“That is completely illogical. You don’t even know me.” 

“Oh, but my darling little Vulcan, love is rarely logical, although as you experienced around my fingers just a little while ago, it is quite lovely.” Root dipped a chip into a bowl of salsa and then crunched into it. “Oooh, spicy,” she said. “By the way, what are your thoughts about double ended dildos. I brought one with me. It seemed like something you might enjoy. It isn’t for everyone, I know, but it can be pretty sweet with the right person. And I know I would very much enjoy it with you.” 

“Fuck.”

“Precisely.” She smiled at her lover, her eyes bright and wide. 

“I’m not so sure we should continue with any more intimacy, as you called it. It seems to have put some ideas in your head.” Shaw drained her margarita and grabbed the sweating pitcher from the middle of the table to pour herself some more. “And I’m thinking that I will have to decline your offer to rule the world together. I wouldn’t want to give you the wrong impression.” 

“Oh, Sameen,” Root smiled and sighed. She looked around the restaurant and shook her head softly. “Look at all these people. Drinking. Eating. On luxury vacations in someone else’s misery. They all haven’t the slightest clue that we are a world at war.” 

“That’s kind of morbid.” 

“No. It’s very morbid. But it’s true. The world is ending, Sweetie.” 

“Aw, Root. You say the sweetest things. But I bet you use that line with all the girls.” 

“Nope,” Root said and sipped at her margarita. “I only use that line with the ones I want to be with at the very end, as it all crumbles around our heads.” 

“See? It’s the way you say these completely morose things in that voice that is just weird. Seriously, you flirt in the most awkward ways.” 

“It’s not flirting if you’ve already got the girl, Sameen, sweetie.” 

“Again,” Shaw said. She leaned forward and made acute eye contact with Root whose lips were snugly upon the rim of her margarita glass. “You have to get through your head. You did not ‘get the girl.’ You’re actually beginning to sound a bit stalker-y, Root.” 

“I prefer ‘tenacious and dedicated’ to ‘stalker’. And I am tenacious, Sameen. I’ll never give up on us, and before you know it, you will see just how perfect we are for each other.” 

“You’re not just crazy; you’re delusional.” 

“Not at all. Really, Sameen, what would be so bad with us? Think of all the fun we can have before the apocalypse.” 

“You and me, Root? We would be like a four alarm fire in an oil refinery.” 

“Sounds cozy,” Root whispered with a decadent smile and reached under the table to stroke Shaw’s bare thigh. “You look so pretty in black. And I love this dress, how it shows off all of your sweet, little curves and all this gorgeous, honeyed flesh.” Shaw looked around and seemed to realize that the restaurant had gone suddenly and almost completely empty and quiet. Root slipped her hand between Shaw’s legs and continued to travel up. “Please tell me you’re not wearing underwear.” 

Shaw grabbed her hand and pulled it firmly from her thigh and set it back on top of the table. “Sorry to disappoint you,” Shaw snapped. Root rolled her eyes in pretend annoyance. “Don’t we have a number. We bought all those guns. I thought we were going to get to play here at some point.” 

“Hold that thought,” Root said and looked up at me. “Really? Now? Well okay, then.” I told her what she needed to know, then she went back to smiling at Shaw. Without a moment’s hesitation, she reached behind her, grabbed her gun, extended her arm back and shot, once at nine o’clock and a second time at eleven o’clock without ever looking back. She picked up her clutch and dropped her gun into it. “Come on, Sweetie. We will need to be going now.” She grabbed Shaw’s arm and pulled her up out of her seat. They made their way to the door of the restaurant. 

“So, that was actually pretty hot,” Shaw said with a chuckle. 

“See? I told you we would have fun.” 

“Yeah, but when do I get to shoot stuff?” 

“Now don’t be petulant, Sweetie. You’ll get your turn right after we find you some fried ice cream for being such a good little travel companion,” Root said and they continued to run down the empty street, into the dark, until they were out of my line of sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!!! I truly appreciate comments, kudos, etc. Shoot is like the best fandom in the world. xoxoxo!!!


	11. Reese

“John, where on earth have you been?” She opened the screen door and let me into the foyer of her house. I was instantly enveloped in the coziness, the smells of her world-- her cooking, her perfume, her face cream, her dryer sheets.

Her.

“I had dinner with Harold,” I said.

“Let me take your coat,” she said and pulled it off of my shoulders. She hung it up and I pulled her into me, kissed her forehead, held her close. “You smell like garlic,” she said.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. You smell tasty.”

“Harold made Italian food. Root and her new little friend are away on some sort of mission, or vacation, I’m not really sure what it is they are doing, to tell you the truth. Anyway, Harold was a little lonely and wanted to cook, so. . .” My voice trailed off as she scowled playfully at me. “I’m sorry I’m late, Joss.”

“You have heard of this thing called a phone, haven’t you?”

I pulled the ear piece out of my right ear. “I think I have,” I said. “And last time I checked, they work two ways.” I couldn’t help but smile. Joss brought out a soft and almost whimsical side of me that I’d never known.

“Well, you’re lucky you’re cute,” she said. She stood on her tiptoes and kissed me. Her tongue parted my lips and swept through my mouth. I couldn’t help but moan at the sensation of her tongue rubbing against mine. “You taste pretty good. Why didn’t Finch invite me for dinner? I’m starting to get the impression he doesn’t like me very much.”

“Nah. He just wanted a boys’ night, I guess.”

“Mmm hmmm,” she said and crossed her arms over her chest. “You boys certainly have an interesting relationship.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” I muttered.

“And I don’t want to know, John,” she said. She took my hand and led me into the kitchen. “You want some ice cream?”

“You’re too good to me, Joss,” I said. She smiled, but I was completely serious. “You’re so much better than I deserve.” I pulled her back into my arms, held her tight, swayed a little.

“Hey,” she said. She pushed away a little and looked up at me. “We’ll have none of that. Now do you want cookie dough or caramel swirl?”

“How about a little scoop of both?”

“Alright,” she said and went to the freezer to get the ice cream, then to the cupboard to get a bowl. “I saw your new coworker. What’s her name? Shaw?”

“Yeah. Sameen Shaw. She’s the one Root went away with. I get the impression she is kind of like Root’s new plaything.”

“Well, she is pretty cute.”

“If by ‘cute’ you mean violently insane,” I said. “She tried to kill me the first time I met her. Almost shot my head off.”

“Hah! I like a lady who knows her way around a weapon, but not if they are aiming it at someone I care about.”

I came up behind her and put my arms around her waist. “On second thought,” I whispered in her ear. “How about I just take three scoops of you and we call it a night?”

“We have time for both,” she said. “Taylor is at his dad’s house all weekend, so you can stay and be comfortable. You can even walk around naked without running into my kid in the hallway.”

“Oh. Yeah. That was awkward.” We both laughed breathily as we rubbed our hands over each other’s backs. “So the whole weekend?”

“Yup,” she brought her hands down to my hips and pulled me closer to her. “Plenty of time for lots of things.”

I hoped she didn’t see my shoulders fall as I sighed in despair, but she was a detective afterall, and she knew me way too well, or at least as well as anyone had ever known me. She brought her hands around to the small of my back. I could feel her warmth spread through the material of my shirt. She felt like safety, maybe the only safety I had ever known, and I loved her for it. She raised an eyebrow, as if to ask me what was going on. I stroked her cheek and then held her against my chest. “That’s just the thing, Joss,” I said. “It doesn’t feel like we have plenty of time. In fact, it feels like we’re running out of it.”

“Why would you say that?”

“I don’t know, exactly. It’s just this feeling I get.”

“John, you’ve been hiding and fighting for your life for so long. It’s normal that you would feel hyper vigilant. But we’re okay.”

“I wish I could believe that. Harold has me convinced we’re on the brink of something terrible.”

“Well Harold should know better than to make my man worried. I think I’m gonna’ have to have a talk with him, right after I teach that Shaw some manners regarding where she points her gun for target practice.”

I couldn’t help but chuckle at that. “I’m sure he would love to hear what you have to say on the matter. But I’m not so sure Shaw is a dog who can be taught any new tricks.” I slipped my hand behind her neck and brought my face down to hers, kissed her forehead, nuzzled her nose. “Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?”

“Why don’t we go upstairs and you can show me?”

“I’d love to,” I said. She started to pull me out of the kitchen and toward the stairs, and even though I was looking at her smiling at me, Harold’s face flashed in front of me. “Wait. The ice cream. Why don’t you go upstairs and get comfortable while I clean this up.” She dipped her head in a coy nod, and left me in the kitchen with the soggy tubs of ice cream. I put them back in the freezer.

Most of the time I could keep my relationships sealed tightly away in separate compartments inside of me. It wasn’t often that I stopped to wonder what I was doing, but when it hit me, it hit me hard. If you had told me when I was engaged to Jessica that it was possible to be in love with more than one person, I’d never have believed you. And yet, here I was, juggling the affections of two lovers who meant more to me than my own beating heart. They had both played important roles in saving me, rescuing me out of the rubble that was my life. They had both chosen me, but I could not choose between them.

I opened the cupboard over the fridge, the one Joss had to use the step stool to get to. I pulled out the bottle of brandy, obtained two glasses from another cupboard, and poured a couple fingers into both glasses. I’d bring one up to Joss. I drained and refilled the one I’d poured for myself.

It was not entirely duplicitous of me to be sharing myself with both of them. Harold knew about Joss and had accepted it in a weird, albeit jealous way. Joss knew I was close to Harold in a different manner than one would expect of simple friendship. They both appreciated that nothing with me was, had ever been, or would ever be simple.

As if telepathically reading my thoughts, my phone buzzed. I fished it out of my pocket and looked at the screen. Harold had texted.

_\-- I’m sorry we ended on a sour note tonight._

_\-- It’s ok. No worries._ I replied.  

_\-- Have a good night and be careful out there, John. 1-4-3_

It was our little code. I texted back.

_\-- Good night, Harold. Sweet dreams. 1-4-3-2_

I slipped the phone back into my pocket, picked up the glasses and walked up the stairs. Joss was sitting up in bed, partially under the covers. She was wearing a burgundy-colored night dress. “I like this one,” I said and slipped a finger under the thin, silky strap on her shoulder. “The color becomes you.” I handed her the glass of brandy. She had taken off her makeup and her face looked dewy with a liberal coat of the night cream she used.

“Thank you,” she said and took a sip. She watched me undress. She watched me carefully fold my clothes and lay them on the chair adjacent from the bed. She watched me walk, completely naked, to my side of the bed. She watched me pull back the covers and climb in. I laid my head down on the pillow next to hers. She placed her glass on her night stand and wiggled down so she was snuggled up next to me in the bed. “You feeling ok, John? You look so tired.”

“Yeah,” I sighed heavily, then deeply inhaled and filled my lungs with her scent. “Would you be terribly disappointed if I just hold you and rest for a while?”

“Not at all,” she said and turned so her back was toward my chest. I curled around her and pulled her close into me, tucked my knees behind hers and my hand up in between her breasts. I could feel her heat and her heart beating.

“You know I love you, right Joss?” It was the first time I’d ever said it out loud. She turned her face back and looked at me, but she didn’t look at all surprised. She just kissed me then settled back into her position in my arms.

“I know,” she said. We were quiet for a little while, then she spoke, “You know, I’ve been thinking that you should move in here with me and Taylor.”

“Are you serious?”

“Of course I’m serious. We have plenty of room. Taylor likes you, and I’d like to have you around more often. The way you look today makes me think you need a woman’s love and attention a little more often.”

“I don’t know if I could ever get enough of your love and attention,” I said. “But it’s a big step, moving in.”

“Sure it is. But think about it. Why not?”

I thought about how it would make things more difficult for Harold and me, and I thought about the potential dangers my living there could expose Joss and her boy to. There were plenty of reasons ‘why not’. But I nestled my face into the nape of her neck, kissed and nibbled her and said, “I’ll think about it.”

“She turned around in my arms and said, “And maybe I can find some ways to convince you?” She bit my neck and my body reacted to the touch of her teeth and lips.

“Now that’s just not fair,” I said and found the hem of her nightdress under the covers. I ran my hand against her silky flesh.

“Who said anything about fair?” She murmured against my neck as she found and licked my earlobe. I pulled her leg over my hips and allowed my hard length to poke at her. “Not feeling so tired now, are you, John?”

“I guess not,” I said, and in another moment I was inside of her, thrusting gently as my mouth found her breast and sucked at her nipple. In that moment, in that place, she was everything and I was safe. Even as she turned out the light and the room became dark, I was still safe.


	12. Root

_“I want to keep burning_   
_I want to keep burning_   
_Baby I’m a house on fire_   
_And I want to keep burning. . . “ -- House on Fire, Sia_

My hotel room was nice, but after spending so much time with Shaw, it felt big and empty. I thought about taking a walk on the beach, but found myself lacking the energy. I took a bath and put on a pair of black, silk pajama pants and a tank top. I sat on the bed and flipped through the channels, but nothing caught my interest. My mind kept going back to Sameen gobbling up her ice cream. It could only be said that what the woman lacked in table manners, she more than made up for with her extremely raw sex appeal. It was so obviously part of her charm.

At least it was charming to me.

She had not wanted to come back to my room, nor did she want me to go back with her to hers. I could have forced the issue, but I decided to respect her wishes. It had been a long day, and although it had been an exciting and wonderful day, I was tired.

_Interface has not consumed enough caloric intake, especially with all of the physical exertion today._

“I’m just not hungry, but thanks for worrying about me.” I laughed. “Physical exertion was the theme of the day, wasn’t it?” My hand came to my breast to touch the spot where Sameen’s mouth had been, hours ago, in the sea. My skin prickled with a shiver. Truth be told, my stomach had been too filled with butterflies to eat much.

_Would you like your nightly updates on Admin and Assets?_

“Not really. I’m feeling a bit distracted. But tell me, how is Harry?”

_There is one statistically significant detail regarding Admin._

“Oh? What is it?”

_Admin made dinner for Asset Reese. Asset Reese left, although Admin wanted him to stay. Admin felt jealous and sad._

“Poor Harry,” I exhaled. “But why is this significant?”

_He also felt anger which is unusual for him. Asset Reese went to Detective Carter’s house. Admin was left alone._

“Carter? Well the big lug is a bit more complicated than I initially thought.”

_Harold is lonely. There is a 2.3 percent chance Admin might do something out of character._

“I’ll take those odds,” I told Her. “Harry doesn’t have a violent bone in his body. He doesn’t even kill spiders, which you know. Anyway, Bear will keep him company until I get home.”

_Admin is lonely._

“So you said. And that makes two of us.”

You are thinking about Asset Sameen Shaw?

“I don’t think I’ll ever stop thinking about her.”

_You did not obtain the data you desired from her. She has not given you the information about Northern Lights. Shall I run through the various plans and their potential outcomes for obtaining said data?_

“No. Thank you. I’m thinking that I might try some softer methods for persuading her to confide in me.”

_There is an almost non existent probability that she will break. She is a soldier. She has been taught many advanced techniques for resisting. It is also highly unlikely that human connection will get her to compromise these characteristics, based on her psychiatric profile._

“Such a pretty profile, she has, my Sameen,” I said.

_Sameen Shaw is not yours. It is impossible for a human to belong to another._

“Well, I see I still have a few things to teach you about love,” I said. Maybe Sameen wasn’t exactly ‘mine’ yet, but I most certainly already belonged to her. I briefly thought about pleasuring myself to the lusty thoughts of my lover, but I was tired. I flopped back in the king sized hotel bed and tried to sleep for a bit. But it was no use. “Hey, how about you read me some Tennyson?”

_Would you like me to continue reading the biography you started, or would you like to hear some poetry?_

“Poetry would suit my mood, I believe.”

_Very well._

She read Tennyson to me for a while. The Mermaid. The Princess. Crossing the Bar.

_Twilight and evening bell,_   
_And after that the dark!_   
_And may there be no sadness of farewell,_   
_When I embark;_

“That’s enough. Thank you.”

_Is Interface sleepy? Would you like me to turn the lights off for you?_

“No. I think I’ll go down to the bar and have a drink.”

_It is unadvisable on your empty stomach, Root._

“Aren’t you the sweetest to be worrying about me, and about Harold, and about all the rest of the world. You really are the most amazing. But I’m sure they have some peanuts or pretzels at the bar. Or maybe I’ll order something from the menu, if it will make you happy.” She had nothing to say to this. I rose from the bed and threw my sarong over my shoulders. Briefly, I contemplated if I should figure out a way to holster a gun in my pajama pants, or if I should just put on a pair of jeans. When I sighed in frustration, She let me know that my chance of encountering enemy combatants was about 1.3 percent. I figured I could live with those odds, so I left the gun on the night stand.

The hotel bar was dimly lit, but the turquoise and coral it was decorated in made it seem like it could be festive at any hour. I settled into a wicker couch with overstuffed cushions in the farthest corner, and considered the menu. I looked up when the waiter approached me. “I’d love a vodka martini, just a little dirty. And could I also get something to nibble on? Maybe some chips?” What I really wanted was a piece of toast with peanut butter, but I had a feeling it wouldn’t be available in the hotel bar, and it definitely would not pair well with my martini.

As the waiter went back behind the bar to mix my drink, I took a look around. The room was mostly empty, but there was one petite person sitting on a stool at the bar, hunched over a drink. I stood, stretched, and approached her.

“Hey, Sweetie.”

“Root. What are you doing up?” Sameen asked. “Is this more of your stalker shit? Did your computer buddy tell you I was here?” There was just the faintest trace of a smile in the corner of her lips, and her tone was more playful than harsh.

“No, surprisingly, She didn’t,” I said and wondered if She hadn’t told me about Sameen’s presence because she wanted me to be surprised. “I don’t sleep too well, to be honest with you.”

“Yeah. Me neither. Never have.”

“We may have more in common than you ever could have imagined, Sameen. Buy you a drink?” I asked as the bartender set my martini in front of me.

“Um, you kind of already are,” she said raising her glass. “I’m obviously charging all of this to the room which you are obviously paying for.”

“You’re such a straight shooter, Sameen,” I smiled. “Yet another quality I love about you. What are you drinking?”

“Tequila,” she said and scowled as if it were the most obvious thing in the world and I had asked the dumbest question.

“Of course,” I giggled. “Well, cheers then.” I raised my glass and was thrilled when she raised hers and met mine with the tiniest of clinks.

“Salud,” she said and tossed back her shot.


	13. Shaw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we learn Root's perfect and mysterious cure for a nasty tequila hangover. . .

The morning after Root and I did the tequila slammers until, well, the morning, I woke with an angry stomach and gummy mouth. And oh my god, my head. 

“Dammit, tequila,” I groaned into my pillow and was met by my own disgusting breath coming back to hit me in the face. “Uggghhh!” I rolled onto my back and looked up at the ceiling. The fan spinning up there pissed me off because it made me dizzy and even more nauseous. And the cold breeze felt rancid on my clammy flesh. “Shit,” I hissed angrily, turning my face back into my pillow. 

Eventually, I rose from the bed and stumbled into the bathroom. I washed my face and put a glob of toothpaste in my mouth, swished it around, and spit it out. 

My hair looked kind of greasy, so I pulled it back into a ponytail and sat on the edge of the tub for a bit, deciding if I was going to hurl. The tub was large and deep and I briefly considered curling up inside of it. There was something about confining spaces that made me feel comfortable when I was entirely uncomfortable. I’ve always prefered a shower to a bath. Sitting around in your own butt water just seems unfortunate. But I had developed a habit over the years of curling up to sleep in waterless bathtubs when I felt sick, or when sleep had eluded me for so long that I was starting to lose my grip on reality. 

This did not seem to be one of those times, and as my stomach settled, I decided to go back to bed for a while. 

I was beginning to get the impression that there was not really a number here in Mexico, and that Root had simply brought me down here to have her way with me. Not that I really minded. She was hot as fuck and she did this thing with her fingers where she curled them inside of me and . . . as I thought of it, my body could not decide if it was still feeling shitty, or if it was ready for another go on Root’s fingers. 

Ultimately, I decided I would put my body back in bed, my point being, I wasn’t going to be late for work, if there was no work to be done. 

Root would no doubt be sleeping off her own hangover in her own room. 

Except she was not in her own room. She had entered mine while I was in the bathroom. 

“Root! What the fuck?” I yelled at her. My hand was on my hip, reaching for a gun that was not there. 

“Good morning, Baby. I’m sorry. Did I startle you?” 

“Um, little bit. Yeah, you did.” There was a moment of silence in which I realized she was scanning me from head to toe, and in which I realized I was completely naked. “Dammit, Root,” I snapped and went back into the bathroom to grab one of the plush, white robes from the back of the door. 

“No need to be modest on my account,” Root crooned. “I was enjoying the view, and maybe getting some new ideas for play time.”

“Play time?”

“Yes, well, you have an objection to ‘girl time’ so I thought you might find it more palatable if we call it play time.” 

“Are you talking about fucking?” 

“Maaayyyybeeeee,” she said. She looked alert, happy, and really pretty. She was looking up at me from beneath fluttering eyelashes. 

“Look, Root, I’m not really in the mood. I was actually about to go back to bed.”

“Okay. I’m game!”

“Alone.” 

“Hmph, someone woke up with a big case of the grumpers,” she sighed. “Now that you mention it, you do look kind of under the weather, Sameen. Are you feeling okay?” 

“No. I am not feeling okay. I am hungover as fuck.”

“I had a feeling you might be.”

“And you’re not? How are you not?” 

“Well, for starters, I did not drink even a fraction as much as you did last night.” 

“But you were doing shots too.”

“Yeah, but I stopped at three, which was around the time you were on your sixth or seventh. You’re actually lucky you eat like a trucker, otherwise you probably would have given yourself a nasty case of alcohol poisoning. There really is too much of a good thing, you know. Anyway, I stayed clear headed because I wanted to make sure you got back to your room safely.”

“How sweet,” I grumbled sarcastically, but my sarcasm did not phase her. 

“It’s what I do, Sameen.” Root puckered up her pink, glossy lips and blew me a kiss across the room. I was guessing her lips tasted like strawberry, which under normal circumstances would have exacerbated my nausea, but for some reason, imagining her lips pressed against mine, and me licking off all that glossy shit just made me tingle. 

“Fuck,” I hissed. 

“Sweetie,” she said, all concerned, “Get back in your bed. I’m going to make you my miracle hangover cure.” 

“Awesome. Is it laced with truth serum or is it just psychoactive?” 

“Neither. And don’t be such a sour puss.” 

“Sour puss?” 

“Exactly. Now scoot. Into bed with you Grumper McGrumpy Pants.” 

Every inch of my body was aching from standing there, tensed to do battle with her. So, I gave up and slunk back to bed. As if reading my mind, Root switched off the ceiling fan. Then she went to the mini bar, opened a bag and took out a small, plastic vial of pills, a can of ginger ale, and another packet of something powdered. She put the pills and powder into a clean glass and crushed it all together with the back of a spoon. Then she poured the ginger ale over it and stirred it as it fizzed up. She brought it to me and sat on the side of the bed. 

“I am not drinking that,” I said. 

“Come on, Sweetie. Down the hatch. It’ll make you feel better. Trust me.” 

“Yeah, well, it’s funny, but I have this thing about not trusting stalkers who have already tried to drug me and elicit classified information.” 

“I can see why you would say that,” she said and smiled at me. “Okay. Full disclosure. This glass contains ginger ale, alka seltzer, and a couple of crushed up motion sickness and caffeine pills. It is my own secret remedy for vicious hangovers. The ginger and alka seltzer will help settle your pretty, little tummy. And the Dramamine will dry up your stomach and stop the spins. It might make you a little sleepy, but the caffeine should combat that and maybe even perk you up. Anyway, if you get sleepy, we can go out and nap on the beach if you like. However, I highly suspect you’ll be feeling better before breakfast even gets here.” 

“Breakfast? Oh no. I don’t think so.”

“I ordered you a lovely little buffet of things, but I won’t tell you what until after you’ve had your medicinal concoction so that you don’t feel even more nauseous. Here,” she held the glass out to me. I took it and complied with her by taking a sip. It tasted sweet and a little bitter all at once, but not in a bad way. She sat with her hands folded in her lap while I drank the rest of it, then belched long and loud. “That’s my girl,” she said and patted my thigh. There was a knock at the door. “That will be breakfast. Right on time.” She got up and disappeared around the corner to open the door for room service. She returned wheeling a little cart with about seven platters, all covered up with those metal thingies. “How’s the patient?” 

“Believe it or not, I actually feel a little better.” 

“Oh, I believe it. Now, would my pretty girl like to start with pancakes or waffles, or should I stack a couple together for you with the bacon and ham?”

“How did you--”

“I know all sorts of things about all sorts of things,” she said, and I sat there slack jawed and watched as she put together a neat stack of waffle, pancake, ham, and bacon. Just the way I liked it. She buttered the hot pancakes and waffle liberally and then poured a fountain of warm maple syrup over the entire thing. She cut a bite and held the fork up to my lips. I was just about to open my mouth and take it, when I came to my senses. 

“I can feed myself,” I said and grabbed the fork out of her hands. “Aren’t you going to eat?” 

“I’m not that hungry right now. I had a snack already in my room.”

“Well, it’s kind of creepy, you just sitting there and watching me eat, you know?” 

“Sorry, Sameen. It is just utterly enchanting to watch you eat, even when you talk with your mouth full,” she handed me a napkin. As if anticipating my next move, she whipped the cover off of a little plate of fried potatoes and opened the tiny jar of ketchup. She took a knife and extracted the ketchup from the jar, then smeared it over the potatoes. “There’s extra ketchup, if you need it,” she said and winked at me. 

She fucking winked at me. And like, my brain just wasn’t sure what to do with that, so I dug into the potatoes. 

Root climbed up on the bed next to me and leaned back on the pillows while I ate. She laid there quietly, with her hands folded over her stomach, and stared up at the ceiling. 

“You know I’m not going to fuck you just because you magically cured my hangover and brought me breakfast,” I said. 

“Sure you will,” she replied. 

“No. I won’t.” 

“Ok, Sweetie. Whatever,” she sighed but her lips tugged up into a smile. She crossed her ankles and brought her hands up behind her head, making herself more comfortable. I don’t know why I thought I could get rid of her by telling her she would not be getting an after-brunch-screw. 

“So what’s in this for you, anyway?” I asked. 

“Maybe I just like the way you squint at me when you’re trying to figure me out,” she said. 

“I do not squint.” 

“Yeah, you do, and it is adorable.” She cocked her head slightly and said, “Please add this to my list of reasons why I love Sameen. Thank you.” 

“Root, this whole doting on me thing is not so bad. But I hardly need a servant, and let’s be real. You do not love me.” 

“Of course I do,” she said and rolled over on her side. She propped her head up on her hand and looked at me. “And you’ll learn, soon enough, that it doesn’t do much good to argue with me.” 

“So what’s your plan here? Are you just going to sit around and bug me until I go out of my mind?” 

“Very droll, Sameen. But no. I have no intention of foiling that beautiful mind,” she reached over and stroked my cheek, twirled my ponytail around her fingers and smiled softly. “What is so wrong with letting someone take care of you, anyway?” 

“I just have a different reference point for life, I guess.” I said. I pushed the tray of food away and leaned back into the pillows next to her. I was starting to feel sleepy, but in a good way, not drugged. 

“Your father, he took care of you, didn’t he?” Her hand journeyed up into the sleeve of my robe so she could stroke my arm. It didn’t feel bad, but her question pissed me off and I yanked my arm away from her. I sat up a little. 

“We don’t talk about my father. Not. Ever. Do you understand that, Root?” I hissed. 

“Of course, Sameen. I’m sorry,” she said and pulled me back next to her. 

“Not to get all sappy here, Root, but you know I won’t ever feel for you what you think you feel for me.” 

“It’s okay,” she said and found the spot on my arm she had been rubbing before. “She has already told me there is a 97 percent chance you’ll never love me. But I’ll take those odds and whatever else you want to give me.” 

“But doesn’t it bother you?” 

“Nope.” 

“You’re not going to go away, are you?” I was sort of smiling when I said it, but mainly because she was annoying and ridiculous. “What the fuck?” 

“Oh Sameen, the day I go away is the day the whole world goes away.” She pulled the covers up over me. “Now, why don’t you sleep for a bit.” 

“What about our number? Don’t we have any work to do today?” 

She bit her lip and smirked. “In the spirit of full disclosure, we are kind of just on vacation.” 

“Dammit Root! I knew it! I knew you just wanted to get me down here, ply me with guns and churros and screw my brains out.”

“Well, it sort of is working, isn’t it?” She leaned in very close to my face. Her nose was all crinkled with her smile. 

“You are such a liar,” I whispered and was pissed because I was smiling again as her lips touched mine. 

She cocked her head and said, “Add that to the list of things Sameen sort of likes about me. Thank you.” 

“I think we need to make a new rule that you do not talk to your other half when we are in bed.” 

“Oh you do, do you?” 

“Yeah,” I exhaled and kissed her, putting my hand on the back of her head so I could pull her in and kiss her hard. 

“Mmmmh, delicious,” she said and smacked her lips. “You taste like bacon and syrup,” she whimpered into my mouth, then whispered, “Tonight we are going to go slow on the tequila so that tomorrow morning you can eat your pancakes and bacon off of me.”

“Fuck,” I said. 

“Exactly,” she replied and stood up. She straightened her shirt. “Ok, rest up. I have a fun little trip planned for us later on today.”

“Root. Wait. What? Where are you going?”

“I’m going to let you rest, and maybe you’ll even miss me a little.” 

“You are such a tease,” I said and pounded my fists against the bed in frustration. 

“Add that to Sameen’s list too,” she said to her other half. She smiled at me and left my room. 

I licked my lips and decided if I wanted to sleep or take a cold shower. I licked my lips again, noticing she’d left some of her gooey lip gloss on me. 

Bubble gum. 

Her lips had tasted like fucking bubble gum.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys. I love this ship. Like I reeeaaaallllly love this ship. And I love this fandom. So much. Thank you for reading my silly, little Shoot stuff, and thank you so much for the comments and kudos. You all rock and/or roll. xoxoxo.


	14. Finch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cue the dramatic music people. . . I'm going to make a rare attempt at adding some plot to my smut.

The phone rang three times and I was about to hang up when she answered.

“Hello?” Her voice sounded low and rough. 

“Good afternoon Miss Shaw,” I said. “I trust things are going well in Mexico?” 

“Finch? Yeah, Mexico’s fine.” 

“I was wondering how Samantha is doing?”

“Who? Oh, you mean Root?” 

“Yes. I suppose I do mean Root, if that is what you are calling her now.” The back of my neck prickled with irritated anxiety. 

“Well, it’s her name,” she said flatly. 

“Her name is actually Samantha,” I said. When Samantha insisted on being called by her hacker name, I feared that it added fuel to her fire which was most unnecessary. 

“Um, well she seems to be doing fine. I think she’s in her room. Or she’s out taking a run or purchasing a small arsenal out of the basement of a church. I don’t know. Why don’t you just try her room and ask her how she is for yourself?” 

“Have you noticed anything. . . concerning?” I asked tentatively, selectively ignoring the detail of the purchase of weapons. My instincts told me that Miss Shaw was an honest, if not brutally honest, person. She seemed like someone I could trust. She at the very least seemed like someone from whom I could get an honest answer, which was more than I could say for my wife. “Has Samantha seemed to be preoccupied.” 

“I mean, no more than usual,” Shaw said. “She’s always a bit on the loopy side, right?”

“Miss Shaw, I will get right to the point, as I believe you are a person with whom I can be perfectly blunt. I am concerned that my wife’s interest in the machine has become somewhat of an obsession.” 

“Ya’ think?” Shaw snorted. “I mean, she talks to it pretty much non stop, which can be a bit freaky, especially when we’re getting freaky. Oh shit. Did I just say that?” 

“I see,” I said. It did not surprise me in the slightest that Samantha and Sameen were getting, as Shaw so eloquently put it, freaky. 

“Sorry, Finch. I didn’t mean. . . well you know what I mean. Uh, it’s just, well, she led me to believe the two of you were pretty open about things.” 

“That is more or less true,” I conceded. 

“I mean, you and the big guy seem pretty tight, so I figured. . . there’s no hard feelings, right?” She was on the brink of babbling which seemed not to suit her. 

“No, Miss Shaw. There are no hard feelings. Although, I am hoping you will keep an eye on Samantha and let me know if she starts to seem off kilter.” 

“Off kilter?” 

“Yes. You’ll know it if you see it.” I reflected briefly, and with a shiver, about that look Samantha got in her eyes when she was scheming. “And if I can count on your discretion, there will be a generous bonus for you.” 

“Let me see if I’ve got this straight, Finch. You want me to spy on your wife?” 

“I’d think of it more as keeping a healthy eye on her. She’s had times where she has been, shall we say, unwell. I’d feel more at ease knowing you would report back to me if anything alarms you.” 

“Dude. You’ve read my file, right? You know about my diagnosis? I don’t get alarmed.” 

I was beginning to wonder if Miss Shaw’s bluntness was such a positive thing after all. 

“Very well then. You could let me know if anything happens that you think would alarm me, especially if it concerns the machine.” 

“So, you want me to spy on her and you’ll pay me extra?” 

“If that’s the way you want to put it, then yes, I suppose that is what I am asking and offering.” 

“Whatever,” she grumbled. “But I don’t want your money.” 

My throat clenched suspiciously. “What is it you want then, Miss Shaw?” 

“First of all, I want you to stop calling me ‘Miss’ anything. It’s just Shaw, get it? And second, I want your dog.” 

“Bear?” 

“Yeah.” 

I had to admit, she had good taste. The Belgian Malinois John had found and rescued from Arian terrorists was of impeccable lineage and had been flawlessly trained entirely in Dutch by the military. With all of the training that had been invested in him, he was worth upwards of five thousand dollars. “I’m afraid Bear is not for sale, Shaw,” I said, then quickly added, “But you are more than welcome to come by and visit with him any time you like.” 

“Cool,” she said.

“So we have an agreement?” 

“Sure.”

“And you will be discreet?” 

“Discretion is my middle name, Boss.” 

“I somehow find that difficult to believe,” I groused. I thanked her and hung up the phone. While I was less than thrilled about Shaw and Samantha becoming intimate, I was also hoping I could use it to my advantage. 

I turned back to my computer. I’d arrived at the Library earlier than usual and hadn’t yet heard from John. My tea was cool enough and I sipped it as I flipped through my online newspapers. It was quiet and I liked it the muted sense of peace and protection that the stacks of books lent to my daytime dwelling. The machine had not given us a number yet that week, which wasn’t entirely unusual, so other than the business with Samantha, there was no sense of urgency about the morning. I was just about to surrender to the warmth of my tea and contented anticipation of John’s arrival when I saw the headline. 

It was a small article. Small enough I might have missed it. But I did not miss it and it stole any warmth my tea had provided as my blood ran cold. 

A 41 year old woman named Alicia Corwin, had been found dead. She was the deputy Assistant to the Director for National Security Affairs. I knew of her existence because she’d been chummy with my former colleague Nathan Ingraham. He and I had fallen out over the fact that he’d foolishly told her about the machine one night while he was drinking. It had been a very dangerous and very stupid act on his part and had ultimately led to his death. It was a fact for which I’d never fully forgiven either of them. 

My vision had grown hot and blurry as I stared at my computer screen. I took off my glasses and wiped them with a handkerchief. When I replaced them on my face, I could see again. I scrolled up and down, and read the article four times over. 

Corwin had been shot in the head while she was vacationing with her family.

In Mexico.


End file.
